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CIHM/ICMH 

Microfiche 

Series. 


CIHM/ICIVIH 
Collection  de 
microfiches. 


Canadian  Institute  for  Historical  Microreproductions  /  Institut  Canadian  de  microreproductions  historiques 


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D 


D 


D 


D 
D 


D 


D 


Coiourad  covars/ 
Couvsrtura  da  coulaur 


I     I   Covars  damagad/ 


Couvartura  andommagia 

Covars  rastorad  and/or  laminatad/ 
Couvartura  rastauria  at/ou  paliicuiSa 


I      I   Covar  titia  missing/ 


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Coiourad  ink  (l.a.  othar  than  blua  or  black)/ 
Encra  da  coulaur  (l.a.  autra  qua  blaua  ou  noira) 


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10X  14X  18X  22X 


26X 


30X 


y 

12X 


16X 


20X 


24X 


28X 


32X 


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empreinte. 

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dernidre  image  de  cheque  microfiche,  selon  le 
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symbole  V  signifie  "FIN  ". 


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et  de  haut  en  bas,  en  prenant  le  nombre 
d'images  nicessaire.  Les  diagrammes  suivants 
illustrent  la  mdthode. 


1 

2 

3 

1 

2 

3 

4 

5 

6 

■^IP 


THE 


HALLAM  SUCCESSION 


RY 


AMELIA    E.    BARR 

AUTHOR   OK    "JAN    VEDDER's  WIFE,"    "tHE   BOW  OF  ORANGE   RIBBON, 
"  KKIKND   OLIVJA,"   ETC.,   ETC. 


NEW  YORK 
DODD,    MEAD   &   COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS 


?s 

/o7? 

^7 


Copyrignt,  1884, 
PHILLIPS    «S:    HUNT 
New  York. 


'ST 


4 


CONTENTS. 


pa(;r 


70 

no 

118 
125 


AXIERICAXS   IN  YoKKSirrttK y 

Martha  Cravkn's  Trolbi.k 22 

Richard  and  Elizaukth 31 

WkSLKV    and    MKTIIODISNf 54 

Antony'**;  Plans 

God  clkars  13kn  Cravkx 

Christmas 

Renewal  ok  the  Covenant 

Separation 

At  Home   ArjAix 

John    Millard j^^^ 

The  Passionate  Shot 143 

Texas  and  I-iherty im 

Richard  at  IIai  L.^M    1"^;^ 

May.  a.  D,  18;j(; j-^ 

Antony  and  his  Bridk 190 

The  Squire's  Death 1  Pfi 

Antony's  Sin 2H9 

Elizabeth's  Resolve 2'M 

Evelyn «);}« 

Elizabeth's  Tkial 214 

LovK   Comforted 201 

Antony's  Fate 


266 


Santa  Fft   Expkih! ion 271 

Elizabeth  in   Texas <>f;^.2 

The  Sunset  ov  Like o't? 


!?gi5aia^. 


TO 

MY    DEAF     FRIEND, 

8AM.    EARNSHAW   WILSON,    ESQ 

THIS  TALE 

IS,  WITH  AFFECTIONATE  ESTEEM, 

INSCRIBED. 


4 


THE 


HALLAM   SUCCESSION. 


chaptp:r  I. 

"  The  changing  guests,  each  in  a  different  njooil, 
Sit  at  the  road-side  table  and  arise  : 
And  every  life  among  them  ii  likewise 
Is  a  soul's  board  set  daily  with  new  food. 

*'  May  not  this  ancient  room  thou  sitt'st  in  dwell 
In  separate  living  souls  for  joy  or  pain  ? 
Nay,  all  its  corners  may  be  painted  plain 
Where  Heaven  shows  pictures  of  some  life  well-spent." 

YORKSHIRE  is  the  epitome  of  England.  What- 
ever is  excellent  in  the  whole  land  is  fonnd 
there.  The  men  are  sturdy,  shrewd,  and  stalwart; 
hard-headed  and  hard-fisted,  and  have  notably  done 
their  work  in  every  era  of  English  history.  They 
are  also  a  handsome  race,  the  finest  specimens  extant 
of  the  pure  Anglo-Saxon,  and  they  still  preserve  the 
imposing  stature  and  the  bright  blonde  characteristics 
of  the  race. 

Yorkshire  abounds  in  what  is  the  typical  English 
home— fine  old  halls  and  granges,  set  in  wooded 
parks,  and  surrounded  by  sweet,  shady  gardens.  One 
of  the  fairest  of  these  homes  is  Hallam-Croft.     There 


The  IIai-lam  Sut'ci:ssu)N. 


I 


iiiiiy  be  lar<^er  lialKs  in  tlie  West  Riding,  but  none 
that  combines  so  finely  all  the  charms  of  anti({uity, 
with  every  modern  grace  and  comfort.  Its  walls  are 
of  gray  stone,  covered  with  ivy,  or  crusted  with 
golden  lichens;  its  front,  long  and  low,  is  pictur- 
esquely diversified  with  oriel  windows,  gable  ends, 
and  shadowy  angles.  JJehind  is  a  steep,  craggy  range 
of  woody  hills;  in  front,  a  terraced  garden  of  great 
extent ;  full  of  old-fashioned  bowers,  and  labyrinth- 
like  walks,  and  sloping  down  to  a  noble  park,  whose 
oaks  and  beeches  are  of  wonderful  beauty,  and  whose 
turf  is  soft  as  velvet  and  greener  than  any  artist  ever 
dreamed  of. 

Fifty  years  ago  tlie  owner  of  this  lovely  spot  was 
Squire  Henry  Hallam.  He  was  about  sixty  years  of 
age,  stout  and  fair,  and  dressed  in  fine  drab  broad- 
cloth, with  a  white  vest,  and  a  white  cambric  kerchief 
tied  loosely  round  his  neck.  His  hat,  drab  also,  was 
low-crowned  and  broad-brimmed,  and,  as  a  general 
rule,  he  kept  it  on.  In  the  holy  precincts  of  a  church, 
or  if  the  national  anthem  was  played,  he  indeed 
always  bared  his  head  ;  but,  in  the  first  case,  it  was  his 
expression  of  a  religious  sentiment,  in  the  second  he 
saluted  his  country,  and,  in  a  measure,  himself. 

One  evening  in  the  early  spring  he  was  sitting 
upon  a  low  sofa  in  the  room  that  was  specially  his 
own,  mending  some  fishing  tackle.  A  couple  of  set- 
ter puppies  were  worrying  eacn  other  on  the  sola 
beside  him,  and  a  splendid   fox-hound  leaned  her 


TiiK  IIallam  Si:c(;es8Ion.  5 

muzzle  on  one  of  lilfl  broad  knees,  and  looked  up  into 
her  master's  face  with  sad  rej>roaehfid  eves.  Slie  was 
evidently  jealous,  and  watching  anxiously  for  some 
look  or  word  of  favor.  She  had  not  loni;  to  wait. 
The  puppies  became  troublesome ;  he  chided  them, 
and  put  tlie  bit  of  leather  they  were  (piarrelinfj^  about 
in  his  pocket.  Then  he  patted  the  hound,  and  said  : 
"  There's  a  deal  o'  ditl'erence  between  them  and  tliee, 
Fanny,  and  it's  a'  in  thy  favor,  lass;"  and  Fanny 
understood  the  compliment,  for  she  whimpered  hap- 
pily, and  thrust  her  handsome  head  up  against  her 
master's  breast. 

At  that  moment  his  daugliter,  Elizabeth,  entered 
the  room.  She  had  an  open  letter  in  her  hand,  and  a 
look  half-perplexed  and  half-pleased  upon  her  face. 
"  Father,"  she  said,  "there  is  a  letter  from  America  ; 
Richard  and  Phyllis  are  coming ;  ana  I  am  afraid  I 
shall  not  know  how  to  make  tliem  hap})y." 

"  Don't  thee  meet  troubles  half  way ;  they  arn't 
worth  th'  compliment.  What  is  ta  feared  for, 
dearie  ? " 

"Their  life  is  so  different  fr.  m  ours — and,  father, 
I  do  believe  they  are  Methodists." 

The  squire  fastened  the  bit  of  gaudy  feather  to  the 
trout  "fly"  he  was  making,  before  he  answered. 
"  Surely  to  goodness,  they'll  niver  be  that!  Sibbald 
Ilallam,  my  uncle,  was  a  varry  thick  Churchman 
when  he  went  to  th'  Carolinas — but  he  married  a 
foreigner ;  she  had  plenty  o'  brass,  and  acres  o'  land, 


i 


6 


The  Uallam  tSuccEssiox. 


but  1  iiiver  heard  tell  owt  o'  her  religion.  They  had 
fuur  lads  aud  lasses,  but  only  one  o'  them  lived  to 
wed,  and  that  was  my  cousin,  Matilda  Ilallam — 
t'  mother  o'  these  two  youngsters  that  are  speaking 
o'  coming  here." 

"  Who  did  she  marry,  father?  " 

"Nay,  I  knowt  o'  th'  man  she  married.  lie  was  a 
Colonel  Fontaine.  I  was  thinking  a  deal  more  o* 
my  own  wedding  than  o'  hers  at  that  time.  It's  like 
enough  he  were  a  Methodist.  T'  Carolinas  lied  re- 
belled against  English  government,  and  it's  nobbut 
reasonable  to  suppose  t'  English  Church  would  be  as 
little  to  their  liking.  But  they're  Ilallams,  whativer 
else  they  be,  Elizabeth,  and  t'  best  I  hev  is  for  them." 

He  had  risen  as  he  spoke ;  the  puppies  were  bark- 
ing and  gamboling  at  his  feet,  and  Fanny  watching 
his  face  with  dignilied  eagerness.  They  knew  he  was 
going  to  walk,  and  were  asking  to  go  with  him.  "  Be 
still  wi'  you,  Ilattle  and  Tory  ! — Yes,  yes,  Fanny  1 — 
and  Elizabeth,  open  up  t'  varry  best  rooms,  and  give 
them  a  right  hearty  welcome.     "Where's  Antony  ? " 

"Somewhere  in  the  house." 

"  Iledn't  ta  better  ask  him  what  to  do  ?  Ho  knows 
ivery  thing."' 

There  was  a  touch  of  sarcasm  in  the  voice,  but 
Elizabeth  was  too  much  occupied  to  notice  it ;  and  as 
the  squire  and  his  dogs  took  the  road  to  the  park, 
she  turned,  with  the  letter  still  open  in  her  hand,  and 
went  thoughtfully  from  room  to  room,  seeking  her 


TiiK  Uallam  Succkssion.  7 

bi'other.  There  was  no  deeper  motive  in  her  thoii<'ht 
rlian  what  was  apparent ;  her  cares  were  simply  those 
of  liospitality.  But  wlien  a  life  has  been  bounded  by 
household  hopes  and  anxieties,  they  assume  an  undue 
importance,  and  since  her  mother's  death,  two  years 
previously,  there  had  been  no  company  at  llallani. 
This  was  to  be  EHzabeth's  first  effort  of  active  liospi- 
tality. 

She  found  Antony  in  the  library  reading  "The  Gen- 
tleman's Magazine,"  :>r,  perhaps,  nsing  it  for  a  seda- 
tive ;  for  he  was  either  half  asleep,  or  lost  in  thought. 
He  moved  a  little  petulantly  when  his  sister  spoke. 
One  saw  at  a  glance  that  he  had  inherited  his  father's 
fine  physique  and  presence,  but  not  his  father's  calm, 
clear  nature  His  eyes  were  restless,  his  expression 
preoccupied,  his  manner  haughty.  Neither  was  his 
voice  quite  pleasant.  There  are  human  instruments, 
which  always  seem  to  have  a  false  note,  and  Antony's 
had  this  peculiarity. 

"  Antony,  I  have  a  letter  from  Eichard  and  Phyllis 
Fontaine.     They  are  going  to  visit  us  this  summer." 
"  I  am  delighted.    Life  is  oreadf -ally  dull  here,  with 
nothing  to  do." 

"  Come  to  the  parlor,  and  I  will  give  you  a  cup  of 
tea,  and  read  you  cousin  Phyllis's  letter." 

The  squire  had  never  thought  of  asking  ElizabetK 
wliy  she  supposed  her  cousins  to  be  Methodists. 
Antony  seized  at  once  upon  the  point  in  the  letter 
which  regarded  it. 


I 


;S  ! 


8 


Tup:  Hallam  Succession. 


"  They  are  sailing  with  Bishop  Elliott,  and  will 
remain  until  September,  in  order  to  allow  the  Bishop 
to  attend  Conference;'  whet  does  that  mean,  Eliza- 
beth ? " 

"  I  suppose  it  means  they  are  Methodists." 

The  young  man  was  silent  d  moment,  and  then  he 
replied,  emphatically,  "  I  am  very  glad  of  it." 

"  How  can  you  suy  so,  Antony  ?  And  there  is  the 
rector,  and  the  Elthams — " 

"  I  was  thinking  of  the  Ilallams.  After  a  thou- 
sand years  of  stagnation  one  ought  to  welcome  a 
ripple  of  life.  A  Methodist  isn't  asleep.  I  have 
often  felt  inclined  to  drop  into  their  chapel  as  I 
passed  it.  I  wonder  how  it  would  feel  to  be  awake 
soul  and  body  at  once ! " 

"Antony,  you  ought  not  to  talk  so  recklessly. 
Some  people  might  imagine  you  meant  what  you 
f^aid.  You  know  very  well  that  the  thousand  years 
of  'stagnation,'  as  you  call  it,  of  the  Hallams,  is  a 
most  respectable  thing." 

"  Yery  respectable  indeed !  That  is  all  women 
think  about — born  conservatives  every  one  of  them 
— '  dyed  in  the  wool,'  as  a  Bradford  man  would  say." 

"Why  do  you  quote  what  Bradford  men  say?  I 
cannot  imagine  what  makes  you  go  among  a  crowd 
of  weavers,  when  you  naight  be  at  Eltham  Castle 
with  gentlemen." 

"  I  will  tell  you  why.  At  Eltham  we  yawn  and 
st  gnate  together.     The  weavers  prick  and  pinch  me 


The  Hallam  Succession. 


9 


iu  a  thuiifcaud   places.      They   make   me   dream  of 
living." 

"  Drink  your  tea,  Antony  and  don't  be  foolish." 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  laughed.  Upon 
the  whole,  he  rather  liked  the  look  of  astonishnient 
in  his  sister's  gray  eyes,  and  the  air  of  puzzled  disap- 
proval in  her  manner.  IJe  regarded  ignorance  on 
a  great  many  niatters  as  the  natural  and  admirable 
condition  of  womanhood. 

"It  is  very  good  tea,  Elizabeth,  and  I  like  this 
American  news.  I  shall  not  go  to  the  Tyrol  now. 
Two  new  specimens  of  humanity  to  study  are  better 
than  glaciers." 

"  Antony,  do  remember  that  you  are  speaking  of 
your  own  cousins — 'two  new  specimens  of  human- 
ity ' — they  are  Hallams  at  the  root." 

"  I  meant  no  disrespect ;  but  I  am  naturally  a  little 
excited  at  the  idea  of  American  Hallams— Americana 
in  Hal  lam-Croft !  i  only  hope  the  shades  of  Hengist 
and  Horsa  wont  haunt  tlie  old  rooms  out  of  simple 
curiosity.     "When  are  tliey  to  be  here  ?  " 

"They  will  be  in  Liverpool  about  the  end  of  May. 
You  have  two  weeks  to  prepare  yourself,  Antony." 

Antony  did  not  reply,  but  just  what  kind  of  a 
young  lady  his  cousin  Phyllis  Fontaine  might  be  he 
had  no  idea.  People  could  not  in  those  days  buy 
tlieir  pictures  by  the  dozen,  and  distribute  them,  so 
that  Antony's  imagination,  in  this  direction,  had  the 
Held  entirely  to  itself.      His  fancy  painted  her  in 


* 


10 


The  Hallam  Succession. 


many  charming  forms,  and  yet  he  was  never  able  to 
invest  her  with  any  other  distinguishing  traits  than 
those  with  which  lie  was  familiar — the  brilliant 
blonde  beauty  and  resplendent  health  of  his  country- 
women. 

Therefore,  when  the  real  Phyllis  Fontaine  met  his 
vision  she  was  a  revelation  to  him.  It  was  in  the 
afternoon  cf  the  last  day  of  May,  and  Hallam  seemed 
to  have  put  on  a  more  radiant  beauty  for  the  occa- 
sion. The  sun  was  so  bright,  the  park  so  green, 
the  garden  so  sweet  and  balmy.  Heart's-ease  were 
every-where,  honeysuckles  tilled  the  air,  and  in  the 
wood  behind,  the  blackbirds  whistled,  and  the  chaf- 
linches  and  tomtits  kept  up  a  merry,  musical  chatter- 
ing. The  squire,  with  his  son  and  daughter,  was  wait- 
ing at  the  great  open  door  of  the  main  entrance  for 
his  visitors,  and  as  the  carriage  stopped  he  cried  out, 
cheerily,  '•  Welcome  to  Hallam ! "  Then  there  was  a 
few  minutes  of  pleasant  confusion,  and  in  them 
Phyllis  had  made  a  distinct  picture  on  every  mind. 

''  She's  a  dainty  little  woman,"  said  the  squire  to 
himself,  as  he  sat  calmly  smoking  his  pipe  after  the 
bustle  of  the  arrival  was  over;  "not  much  like  a 
Hallam,  but  t'  eye  as  isn't  charmed  wi'  her  'ell  hev 
no  white  in  it,  that's  a'  about  it." 

Antony  was  nmcli  interested,  and  soon  sought  his 
sister. 

"  If  that  is  Cousin  Phyllis,  she  is  beautiful.  Don't 
you  think  so,  Elizabeth  ? " 


The  IIallam  Succession. 


11 


"  Yes;  liow  perfectly  slic  was  dressed." 

"That  is  a  woman's  criticism.  Did  von  see  her 
soft,  dark  eyes,  her  small  bow-shaped  month — a 
beanty  one  rarely  finds  in  English  women — her  ex- 
quisite complexion,  her  little  feet  ? " 

''That  is  a  man's  criticism.  How  conld  you  see 
all  that  in  a  moHi^jnt  or  two  of  such  confusion  ? " 

"  Easily  ;  how  was  she  dressed  ? " 

"  In  a  plain  dress  of  gray  cloth.  The  fit  was  per- 
fect, the  linen  collar  and  cuffs  spotless,  the  gray  bon- 
net, with  its  drooping,  gray  feather  bewitching.  She 
wore  gray  gloves  and  a  traveling  cloak  of  the  same 
color,  which  hung  like  a  princess's  mantle." 

"  How  could  vou  see  all  that  in  a  moment  or  two 
of  such  confusion  ? " 

"  Do  not  be  too  clever,  Antony.  You  forget  1 
went  with  her  to  lier  rooms." 

"  Did  you  notice  Richard  ? " 

"  A  little ;  he  resembles  his  sister.  Their  foreign 
look  as  they  stood  beside  you  and  father  was  very  re- 
markable.    Neither  of  them  are  like  Hallams." 

"  I  am  so  glad  of  it ;  a  new  element  coming  into 
life  is  like  a  fresh  wind  '  blowino;  throu2:h  breathless 
woods.' " 

But  Elizabeth  sighed.  This  dissatisfaction  with  the 
old,  and  ci-aving  for  the  new,  was  one  of  the  points 
upon  which  Antony  and  his  father  were  unable  to 
understand  each  other.  Nothing  permanent  pleased 
Antony,  and  no   one  could  ever   predic;ite  of  him 


12 


The  Hallam  Succession. 


what  course  he  would  pursue,  or  what  side  he  would 
take.  As  a  general  rule,  however,  he  preferred  the 
opposition  in  all  things.  Now,  the  squire's  principles 
and  opinions  were  as  clear  to  his  own  mind  as  his 
own  existence  was.  He  beli(^ved  tirnily  in  his  Bible, 
in  the  English  Constitution,  and  in  hinjself.  He  ad- 
mitted no  faults  in  the  first  two ;  his  own  shortcom- 
ings toward  Heaven  he  willinoly  acknowledged ;  but 
he  regarded  his  attitude  toward  his  fellow-man  as 
without  fault.  All  his  motives  and  actions  pro- 
ceeded from  well-understood  truths,  and  they  moved 
in  consistent  and  admirable  grooves. 

Antony  had  fnllen  upon  different  times,  and  been 
brought  under  more  uncertain  influences.  Oxford, 
"  the  most  loyal,"  had  been  in  a  religious  ferment 
during  his  stay  there.  The  spirit  of  Pusey  and  New- 
man was  shaking  the  Church  of  England  like  a  great 
wind ;  and  though  Antony  had  been  but  little 
touched  by  the  spiritual  aspect  of  the  movement,  the 
temporal  accusations  of  corruption  and  desertion  of 
duty  were  good  lances  to  tilt  against  the  Church 
with.  It  gave  him  a  curiously  mixed  pleasure  to 
provoke  the  squire  to  do  battle  for  her ;  partly  from 
contradiction,  partly  that  he  might  show  off  his  array 
of  second-hand  learning  and  logic ;  and  partly,  also, 
for  the  delight  of  asserting  his  own  opinions  and  his 
own  individuality. 

Any  other  dispute  the  squire  would  have  settled 
by  a  positive  assertion,   or  a  positive  denial ;  but 


TiiF,  Hall  AM  Succession. 


13 


even  the  most  dogmatic  of  men  are  a  little  conscien- 
tious about  religious  scruples.  He  liad>  therefore, 
allowed  his  son  to  discuss  "the  Church"  with  him, 
but  in  some  subtle  way  the  older  man  divined  that 
his  ideas  were  conviction ;  while  Antony's  were  only 
drifting  thoughts.  Therefore,  the  moral  strength  of 
the  argument  was  with  him,  and  he  had  a  kind  of 
contempt  for  a  Hallam  who  could  be  moved  by 
every  Will-o'-the-wisp  of  religious  or  political 
opinions. 

But  Elizabeth  was  greatly  impret;sed  by  her  broth- 
er's accomplishments,  and  she  loved  him,  and  believed 
in  him  with  all  her  heart.  The  Hallams  hitherto  had 
no  reputation  for  mental  ability.  In  times  of  need 
England  had  found  them  good  soldiers  and  ready 
givers ;  but  poets  and  scholars  they  had  never  been. 
Antony  affected  tlie  latter  character.  He  spoke 
several  languages,  he  read  science  and  German  phi- 
losophy, and  he  talked  such  radical  politics  to  the  old 
gardener,  that  the  man  privately  declared  himself 
"fair  cap't  wi'  t'  young  squire." 

Yet  after  all,  his  dominant  passion  was  a  love  of 
power,  and  of  money  as  the  means  by  which  to  grasp 
power.  Below  all  his  speculations  and  affectations 
this  \vas  the  underlying  thought.  True,  he  was  heir 
of  Hallam,  and  as  the  heir  had  an  allowance  quite 
equal  to  his  position.  But  he  constantly  reflected 
that  his  father  might  live  many  years,  and  that  in  the 
pmbable  order  of  things  he  must  wait  until  he  wn^  a 


fT 


u 


The  Hallam  Succession. 


middle-aged  man  for  his  inheritance  ;  and  for  a  young 
man  who  felt  himself  quite  competent  to  turn  the 
axle  of  the  universe,  it  seemed  a  contemptible  lot  to 
grind  in  his  own  little  mill  at  Ilallam.  He  had  not 
as  yet  voiced  these  thoughts,  but  they  lay  in  his 
heart,  and  communicated  unknown  to  himself  an  at- 
mosphere of  unrest  and  unreliability  to  all  his  words 
and  actions. 

It  was  soon  evident  that  there  would  be  little  sym- 
pathy between  liichard  and  Antony.  Richard  Fon- 
taine was  calm,  dignified,  reticent ;  never  tempted  to 
give  his  confidence  to  any  one;  and  averse  to  receive 
the  confidences  of  others ;  therefore,  though  he  list- 
ened with  polite  attention  to  Antony's  aspirations  and 
aims,  they  made  very  little  impression  upon  him. 
Both  he  and  Phyllis  glided  without  effort  into  the  life 
which  must  have  been  so  new  to  them ;  and  in  less 
than  a  week,  Hallam  had  settled  happily  down  to  its 
fresh  conditions.  But  nothing  had  been  just  as  An. 
tony  expected.  Phyllis  was  very  lovely,  but  not 
lovely  specially  for  him,  which  was  disappointing; 
and  he  could  not  help  soon  seeing  that,  though 
Kichard  was  attentive,  he  was  also  unresponsive. 

There  is  one  charming  thing  about  English  hos- 
pitality, it  leaves  its  guests  perfect  freedom.  In  a 
very  few  days  Phyllis  found  this  out ;  and  she  wan- 
dered, imnotieed  and  undisturbed,  through  the  long* 
galleries,  and  examined,  with  particular  interest,  the 
upper  rooms,  into  which  from  generation  to  genera- 


The  Hall  am  SrcrEssiox. 


15 


tion  unwelcoiiicd  pictures  and  unfashionahle  fnriii- 
tiire  liud  been  })hiced.  Tlicre  was  one  room  in  tlie 
eastern  turret  that  attracted  her  specially.  It  con- 
tained an  old  spinet,  and  above  it  the  picture  of  a 
young  girl ;  a  face  of  melancholy,  t'-nder  beauty,  with 
that  far-oft'  look,  which  the  French  call  pvedestinee^ 
in  the  solemn  eyes. 

It  is  folly  to  say  tliat  furniture  has  no  expression  ; 
the  small  couch,  tne  faded  work-table,  the  straight 
chairs,  with  their  twisted  attenuated  legs,  had  an  un- 
speakable air  of  sadness.  One  day  she  cautiously 
touched  the  notes  of  the  instrument.  IIow  weak  and 
thin  and  hollow  they  were  !  And  yet  they  l)!ended 
perfectly  with  something  in  her  own  heart.  iShc 
played  till  the  tears  were  on  her  cheeks,  it  seemed  as 
if  the  sorrowful  echoes  had  found  in  her  soul  the  con- 
ditions for  their  reproduction.  AVhen  she  went  back 
to  her  own  room  the  influence  of  the  one  she  had 
left  followed  her  like  a  shadow. 

"How  can  I  bring  one  room  into  another?"  she 
asked  herself,  and  she  flung  wide  the  large  windows 
and  let  the  sunshine  flood  the  pink  chintzes  and  the 
blooming  roses  of  her  own  apartment.  There  was  a 
tap  at  the  door,  and  Elizabeth  entered. 

"  I  have  brought  you  a  cup  of  tea,  PJiyllis.  Shall 
I  drink  mine  beside  you  ?" 

"  I  shall  enjoy  both  your  company  and  the  tea.  I 
think  I  have  been  in  an  unhappy  room  and  caught 
some  of  its  spirit — the  room  with  the  old  spinet  in  it." 


2 


r 


16 


The  IIallam  Sicckspion. 


"  Aunt  Lucy's  room.  Yes,  slie  was  very  unhappy. 
She  loved,  and  tlie  man  was  utterly  unwortliy  of  her 
love.     (She  died  slowly  in  that  room — a  wasted  life." 

"Ah,  no,  Elizabeth  I  Ko  life  is  waste  in  the  great 
^\'orker's  hands.  If  liuman  love  wounds  and  wrongs 
us,  are  we  not  circled  by  angels  as  the  stars  by 
heaven?"  Our  soul  relatives  PorrowMn  our  sorrow  ; 
and  out  of  the  apparent  loss  bring  golden  gain.  I 
think  she  would  know  this  before  she  died." 

"  She  died  as  the  good  die,  blessing  and  hoping." 

Elizabeth  looked  steadily  at  Phyllis.  She  thought 
she  had  never  seen  any  face  so  lovely.  From  her 
eyes,  still  dewy  with  tears,  the  holy  soul  looked  up- 
ward ;  and  her  lips  kept  the  expression  of  the  prayer 
that  was  in  her  1  ^nrt.  She  did  not  wonder  at  the 
words  that  had  falion  from  them.  After  a  moment's 
'^llence,  she  said : 

"  My  mother  loved  Aunt  Lucy  very  dearly.  Tier 
death  made  a  deal  of  difference  in  mother's  life." 

"  Death  is  always  a  great  sorrow  to  those  who  love 
us ;  but  for  ourselves,  it  is  only  to  bow  our  heads  at 
going  out,  and  to  enter  straightway  another  golden 
chamber  of  the  Tving's,  lovelier  than  the  one  we  leave." 

Elizabeth  ccarce  knew  how  to  answer.  She  had 
never  been  used  to  discuss  sacred  subiects  with  <i;irl8 
her  own  age  ;  in  fact,  she  had  a  vague  idea  that  such 
subjects  w^ere  not  to  be  discussed  out  of  church,  or, 
at  least,  without  a  clergyman  to  direct  the  conversa- 
tion.    And   Phyllis's  cliildish   iigure,   glowing  face, 


The  Hall  am  Succession. 


17 


5> 


Iler 


■nve." 

liad 

girls 

such 


and  sublime  confidence  affected  her  with  a  seiipe  of 
something  strange  and  remote.  Yet  the  conversation 
intei-ested  lier  greatly.  People  are  very  foolish  who 
restrain  spiritual  coniidences ;  no  topic  is  so  universally 
and  i)ermanently  interesting  as  religious  experience. 
Elizabeth  felt  its  charm  at  once.  She  loved  God,  but 
loved  him,  as  it  were,  afar  off;  she  almost  feared  to 
speak  to  him.  She  had  never  dared  to  speak  of 
him. 

"  Do  you  really  tliink,  Phyllis,  that  angels  care 
about  our  earthly  loves  ?  " 

"  Ves,  I  do.  Love  is  the  rock  upon  which  our  lives 
are  generally  built  or  wrecked.  Elizabeth,  if  I  did 
not  believe  that  the  love  of  (Jod  embraced  <'very 
worthy  earthly  love,  I  should  be  very  miserable." 

"  Because  'i " 

**  Because,  dear,  1  love,  and  am  beloved  again." 

"P)Ut  how  sliall  we  know  if  the  love  be  worthy?" 

"  Once  in  class-meeting  I  asked  this  question. 
That  was  when  I  first  became  aware  that  I  loved 
John  Millard.  I  am  not  likely  to  forget  the  answer 
my  leader  gave  me." 

"What  was  it?" 

"Sister  rhylHs,"  he  said,  "ask  yourself  what  will 
your  love  be  to  you  a  thousand  ages  hence.  Ask 
yourself  if  it  will  pass  the  rolling  together  of  the 
heavens  like  a  scroll,  and  the  melting  of  the  ele- 
ments with  fervent  heat.  Ask  if  it  will  pass  the  judg- 
ment-day, when  the  secret  thoughts  of  all  hearts  will 


1 


18 


TiiK  IIallam  Succession. 


I   I 


( I 


ii  \ 


III' 

I: 


\\ 


I      I 


I     I 


I     I    I 


l)(3  revealed.  Dure  to  love  only  one  whom  you  run 
love  forever." 

"  T  have  never  thon^j^ht  of  lovinj;  throui^hout  all 
eternity  the  one  whom  I  love  in  time." 

"  Ah  I  but  it  IkS  cur  privilejjce  to  cherish  the  immor- 
tal in  tlio  man  we  love.  Where  I  go  I  wish  my  be- 
loved to  _i>o  also.  The  thouii;ht  of  our  love  severed 
on  the  thresliold  of  i)aradise  makes  me  weep.  T  cati- 
not  understand  an  aiTeetion  which  must  look  forward 
to  an  irrevocable  s('j)aration.  Nay,  1  ask  more  than 
this;  I  desire  that  my  love,  even  there  assuininf;^  his 
own  proper  place,  should  be  still  in  advance  of  me — 
my  guide,  my  sujiport,  my  master  every- where." 

"  If  you  love  John  Millard  in  this  way,  he  and  you 
must  be  very  happy.'' 

"  We  ar(»,  and  yet  what  earthly  light  has  not  its 
shadow  ? " 

"  What  is  the  shadow,  Phyllis  ? " 

"  Richard  dislikes  him  so  bitterly  ;  and  Richard  is 
very,  very  near  and  dear  to  me.  I  dare  say  you  think 
he  is  very  cool  and  calm  and  (piiet.  It  is  the  restraint 
which  he  puts  upon  himself;  really  Richard  has  a 
constant  fight  with  a  temper,  which,  if  it  should  take 
possession  of  him,  would  bo  uncontrollable.  He  knows 
that." 

"  You  spoke  as  if  you  are  a  Wesleyan,  yet  you 
went  to  Church  last  Sunday,  Phyllis." 

"  Why  not  i  Methodists  are  not  bigots  ;  and  just 
as  England  is  my  mother-country,  Episcopacy  is  my 


1 


The  IIallam  Sixclssion. 


19 


inotlior-Chiirch.  If  Episcopacy  should  ever  die,  Lliz- 
alH'tli,  Methodism  is  next  of  kin,  and  would  be  heir 
to  all  her  chuiehes." 

"  And  Wesleyans  and  Methodists  are  the  sauie  ?  " 

"  Yes  ;  but  I  like  the  old  name  best.  It  came  from 
the  pen  of  the  golden-mouthed  Chrysostom,  so  you 
see  it  has  quite  an  apostolic  halo  about  it." 

"  I  never  heard    hat,  Phyllis." 

"  It  is  hardly  likely  you  would.  It  was  used  at 
first  as  a  word  of  reproach  ;  but  how  many  such  words 
have  been  adopted  and  made  gloi'ious  emblems  of  vic- 
tory. It  was  thus  in  ancient  Antioch  the  first  follow- 
ers of  Christ  were  called  '  Christians.'  " 

"  But  how  came  Chrysostom  to  find  a  name  for 
John  Wesley's  followers  ? " 

''  Richard  told  me  it  was  used  first  m  a  pani])hlet 
against  Whitefield.  I  do  not  remember  the  author, 
but  he  quoted  from  the  pages  of  Chrysostom  these 
words,  'To  be  a  Methodist  is  to  be  beguiled.'  Of 
course,  Chrvsostom's  *  Methodist'  is  not  our  Method- 
ist.  The  writer  knew  he  was  unjust  and  meant  it 
for  a  term  of  reproach,  but  the  woi'd  took  the  popu- 
lar fancy,  and,  as  such  words  do,  clung  to  the  peojile 
at  whom  it  was  thrown.  They  might  have  thrown  it 
biu'k  again ;  they  did  better ;  they  accepted  it,  and 
have  covered  it  with  glory." 

"  Why,  Phyllis,  what  a  little  enthusiast  you  are  ! " 
and  Elizabeth  looked  again  with  admiration  at  the 
small  figure  reclining  in  the  deep  chair  beside  her. 


»20 


The  Hallam  Succession. 


il: 


!i> 


1 1 
1 1 
i  i 


Its  rosy  chintz  covering  threw  into  vivid  relief  the 
exquisite  paleness  of  PhylHs's  complexion — that  clear, 
warm  paleness  of  the  South — and  contrasted  it  with 
the  intense  blackness  of  her  loosened  hair.  Her 
dark,  soft  eyes  glow  ed,  her  small  hands  had  involun- 
tarily clasped  themselves  upon  lior  breast.  "  What  a 
little  enthusiast  you  are  ! "  Then  she  stooped  and 
kissed  her,  a  most  unusual  demonstration,  for  Eliza- 
betli  was  not  emotional.  Her  feelincrs  were  as  a  still 
lake,  whose  depths  were  only  known  to  those  \v'ho 
sounded  them. 

Tlio  conversation  was  not  continued.  Fine  souls 
have  an  instinctive  knowledge  of  times  and  seasons, 
and  both  felt  that  for  that  day  the  limit  of  spiritual 
confidence  had  been  reached.  But  it  was  Phyllls's 
quicker  nature  whicli  provided  the  natural  return  to 
the  material  life. 

"  I  know  I  am  enthusiastic  about  many  things, 
Elizal)eth.  The  world  is  so  full  of  what  is  good  and 
beautiful !  Look  at  those  roses !  Could  flowers  be 
more  sweet  and  perfect  ?  I  always  dream  of  happy 
things  among  roses." 

"  B'jt  you  nmst  not  dream  now,  dear.  It  is  very 
near  dinner-time.  We  have  had  a  very  pleasant  hour. 
I  shall  think  of  all  you  have  said." 

But  the  thing  she  thought  most  persistently  of  was 
Richard  Fontaine's  temper.  Was  it  possible  that  Ihe 
equable  charm  and  serenity  of  his  mood  was  only  an 
assumed  one  ?     As  she  went  to  the  dining-room  she 


The  Hall  am  Succersion. 


21 


saw  liim  standing  in  the  great  hall  caressing  two  large 
hounds.     In  the  same  moment  he  raised  his  head  and 
stood  watching  lier  approach.     It  seemed  to  iiim  as 
if    he   had    never   seen  her   before.     She   advanced 
slowly  toward  him  through  the  level  rays  of  the  west- 
ering siin,  which   projected  themselves  in  a  golden 
haze  all  around  her.     Those  were  not  the  days  of  Hut- 
ino-s  and  bows  and  rufflino;s  innumerable.     Elizabeth's 
dress  was  a  long,  perfectly  phiin  one,  of  white  India 
mull.     A  narrow  black  belt  conlined  it  at  the  waist, 
a  collar  of  rich  lace  and  a   brooch  of  gold   at   the 
throat,     llcr  fair  hair  was  dressed  in  a  large  loose 
bow  on  the  crown,  and  lay  in  soft  light  curls  upon  her 
brow.      Tier   feet    were   sandaled,   her   large   white 
hands  unjeweled  and   ungloved,   and   with  one  she 
lifted  slightly  her  flowing  dress.     Resplendent  with 
youth,  beauty,  and  sunshine,  she  affected  Richard  as 
no  woman  had  ever  done  before.     She  was  the  typ- 
ical Saxon  woman,  the  woman  who  had  ruled  the 
hearts  and  homes  of  his  ancestors  for  centuries,  and 
she  now  stirred  his  to  its  sweetest  depths.     He  did 
not  go  to  meet  her.     He  would  not  lose  a  step  of  her 
progress.     He  felt  that  at  last  Jove  was  coming  to 
visit  him.     It  was  a  joy  almost  solemn  in  its  intensity 
and  expectation.     He  held  out  his  hand,  and  Eliza- 
beth took  it.     In  that  moment  they  saw  each  other's 
hearts  as  clearly  as  two  drops  of  rain  meeting  in  air 
might  look  into  each  other  if  they  had  life. 

Yet  they  spoke  only  of  the  most  trivial  things — the 


na 


ii 


i 


22 


The  Hall  am  Succession. 


dogs,  and  the  weather,  and  Richard's  ride  to  Leeds,  and 
the  stumbling  of  Antony's  liorse.  "  We  left  the  Squire 
in  the  village,"  said  liiehard.  "  A  woman  who  was 
apparently  in  very  great  trouble  called  him." 

"A  woman  who  lives  in  a  cottage  covered  with 
clematis  ? " 

''  I  think  so." 

"  It  must  have  been  Martha  Craven.  I  wonder 
what  is  the  matter !  "  and  they  walked  together  to 
the  open  door.  The  squire  had  just  alighted  from 
his  horse,  and  was  talking  earnestly  to  liis  favorite 
servant.  He  seemed  to  be  in  trouble,  and  he  was  not 
the  man  to  keep  either  sorrow  or  joy  to  himself. 
"  Elizabeth !  my  word,  but  I'm  bothered !  Here's 
Jonathan  Clough  murdered,  and  Ben  Craven  under 
lock  and  key  for  it !  " 

"Why,  father!  Ben  would  never  do  a  thing  like 
that ! " 

"  Not  he !  I'd  be  as  like  to  do  it  mysen.  Thou 
must  go  thy  ways  and  see  Martha  as  soon  as  iver  t' 
dinner  is  eat.  I  sail  stand  by  Martha  and  Ben  to  t' 
varry  last.  Ben  Craven  murde^*  any  body  !  Ilee  !  I 
crack't  out  laug-hinj]:  wlien  I  heard  tell  o'  such  non- 


sense 


)> 


In  fact,  the  squire  had  been  touelied  in  a  very  ten- 
der spot.  Martha  Craven's  mother  had  been  his 
nurse,  and  ]\rartlia  herself,  for  manv  years,  liis  wife's 
maid  and  confidential  servant.  He  felt  the  imputa- 
tion  as  a  j^ersonal  slander.     The  Cravens  had  been 


I  •• 


The  II  all  am  Succession. 


23 


faithful  servants  of  the  Ilallams  for  generations,  and 
Clongh  was  comparatively  a  new-comer.  liiglit  or 
wrong,  the  squire  would  have  been  inclined  to  stand 
bv  an  old  friend,  but  he  had  not  a  doubt  of  Ben's  in- 
nocence. 

"  What  have  you  done  about  it?  "  asked  Anton  v. 

"  I've  been  to  see  Israel  Potter,  and  I've  bound  him 
to  stand  up  for  Ben.  What  Israel  doesn't  know 
'bout  law,  and  what  Israel  can't  do  with  t'  law,  isn't 
worth  t'  knowing  or  t'  doing.  Then  I  went  for  t' 
Wesleyan  minister  to  talk  a  bit  wi'  Martha,  i)oor 
body  ?  She  seemed  to  want  something  o'  t'  kind  ; 
and  I'm  bound  to  say  I  found  him  a  varry  gentle- 
manlv,  sensible  fellow.  He  didn't  think  owt  wrona: 
o'  Bon,  no  more  than  I  did." 

''  People  would  wonder  to  see  you  at  the  Wesl cy- 
an's door." 

"  May  be  they'll  be  more  cap't  yet,  son  Antony. 
I'll  ask  neither  cat  nor  Christian  what  door  to  knock 
at.  I  wish  I  may  nivver  stand  at  a  worse  door  than 
Mr.  North's,  that's  a'.     What  say  you  to  that,  then  ? " 

"  I  say  you  are  quite  right,  father." 

"I'm  nivver  far  wrong,  mj^  lad;  nobody  is  that 
lets  a  kind  heart  lead  them,  and  it  w^ould  be  aijainst 
nature  if  I  didn't  stand  up  for  any  Craven  that's  i' 
trouble." 

Phyllis,  who  was  sitting  beside  him,  laid  her  hand 
upon  his  a  moment,  and  he  lifted  his  eyes  and  met 
hers.     There  was  such  a  light  and  look  of  sympathy 


1 


24 


The  Hallam  Succession. 


1 


i 


and  admiration  in  tlieni,  tliat  she  had  no  need  to  say  a 
word.  He  felt  that  he  had  done  the  right  thing,  and 
was  pleased  with  himself  for  doing  it.  In  a  good 
man  there  is  still  a  deal  of  the  divinity  from  which 
he  has  fallen,  and  in  his  times  of  trial  his  heart  throbs 
upward. 

Dinner  was  insensibly  hnrried,  and  when  Elizabeth 
rose  l^livllis  followed  her.  "  I  must  go  with  you 
dear ;  if  Martha  is  a  Methodist  she  is  my  sister,  and 
she  has  a  r'ght  to  my  sympathy  and  my  purse,  if  it  m 
necessary  to  her." 

"  I  shall  be  glad.  It  is  only  a  pleasant  v/alk  through 
the  park,  and  Antony  and  Richard  can  meet  us  at 
the  park  gates.     I  think  you  will  like  Martha." 

Few  words  were  spoken  by  the  two  girls  as  they 
went  in  the  amber  twiliij:ht  across  the  erreen,  ij-reen 
turf  of  the  park.  Martha  saw  them  coming  and  was 
at  her  door  when  they  stepped  inside  the  fragrant 
patch  which  she  called  her  garden.  She  was  a 
woman  very  pleasant  to  look  at,  tall  and  straight,  with 
a  strong  ruddy  face  and  blue  eyes,  a  little  dim  with 
weeping.  Her  cotton  dress  of  indigo  blue,  covered 
with  golden-colored  moons,  was  pinned  well  up  at  the 
back,  displaying  her  home-knit  stockings  and  low 
shoes  fastened  with  brass  latchets.  She  had  on  her 
head  a  cap  of  white  linen,  stiiily  starched,  and  a 
,  checkered  kerchief  was  pinned  over  her  ample 
bosom. 

Even  in  her  deep  sorrow  and  anxiv*^ ty  her  broad 


'iU 


The  IIallam  Succession. 


25 


sweet  mouth  could  not  forget  its  trick  of  smiling. 
"  Come  this  ways  in,  Joy,"  she  said  to  Elizabetli,  at 
the  same  moment  dropping  a  courtesy  to  FhylHs,  an 
ohl-fasliioned  token  of  respect,  wiiich  had  no  particle 
of  servility  iu  it. 

''  This  is  my  cousin,  Miss  Fontaine,  from  America, 
Martha." 

"Well,  Fm  sure  Fni  right  suited  at  meeting  lier. 
Mother  used  to  talk  above  a  bit  about  Sibbald  IIallam 
as  crossed  t'  seas.     She  looked  for  him  to  come  back 


again.     But  he  nivver  came." 


"  I  am  his  granddaugiiter.  I  am  very  sorry,  Sister 
Martha,  to  hear  of  your  trouble." 

"  AVhy-a !     Is  ta  a  Methodist,  dearie  1 " 

Phyllis  nodded  brightly  and  took  her  hand. 

"  AV^ell  I  nivver !  But  Fm  fain  and  glad  !  And 
as  for  trouble,  I'll  not  fear  it.  AVhy  should  I,  wi'  t' 
love  o'  God  and  t'  love  o'  man  to  help  me  ?  " 

'•When  did  it  happen,  IVIartha?" 

"  Last  night,  Miss  IIallam.  My  Ben  and  Jonathan 
Clough  wern't  as  good  friends  as  might  be.  There's 
a  lass  at  t'  bottom  o'  t'  trouble ;  there's  allays  that. 
She's  a  good  lass  enough,  but  good  'uns  mak'  as  much 
trouble  as  t'  bad  'uns  sometimes,  I  think.  It's  Jona- 
than's daughter,  Mary.  She's  ta'en  Ben's  fancy,  and 
she's  ta'en  Bill  Laycock's  fancy,  too.  T'  lass  likes  my 
Ben,  and  Clough  he  liked  Laycock ;  for  Laycock  is  t' 
blacksmith  now,  and  owns  t'  forge,  and  t'  house  be- 
hind it.     My  Ben  is  nobbut  Clough's  overlooker." 


28 


The  Hallam  Succkssiox. 


i'      ! 


'•  It  is  a  pity  he  stopped  at  Clough's  mill,  if  there 
was  ill-feeling  between  them." 

"  T'  lad's  none  to  blame  for  tliat.  Cloiigh  is  mak- 
kin'  some  new  kind  o'  figured  goods,  and  t'  men  are 
all  hired  by  t'  twelvemonth,  and  boand  over  to  keep  a 
quiet  tongue  i'  their  mouths  about  t'  new  looms  as 
does  t'  work.  Two  days  ago  Cloiigh  found  out  that 
Tim  Bingley  hed  told  t'  secret  to  Booth  ;  and  Clough 
wer'  neither  to  hold  nor  bind  He  put  Bingley  out 
o'  t'  mill,  and  wouldn't  pay  him  t'  balance  o'  t'  year, 
ar.d  somehow  he  took  t'  notion  that  Ben  was  in  t' 
affair.     Ben's  none  so  mean  as  that,  I'm  sure." 

"  But  Bingley  is  a  very  bad  man.  J\fy  father 
sent  him  to  the  tread-nnll  last  year  for  a  brutal  assault. 
He  is  quite  capable  of  murder.  Has  no  one  looked 
for  him  ? " 

"  Bingley  says  he  saw  my  Ben  shoot  Clough,  and 
Clough  says  it  was  Ben." 

"  Then  Clough  is  still  alive  ?  " 

"  Ay,  but  he'll  die  ere  morning.  T'  magistrates 
hev  been  wi'  him,  and  he  swears  positive  that  Ben 
Craven  shot  him." 

"  Where  was  Ben  last  night  ?  " 

"  He  came  from  t'  mill  at  six  o'clock,  and  hed  a 
cup  o'  tea  wi'  me.  He  said  he'd  go  to  t'  chapel  wi' 
mo.  at  eight  o'clock ;  and  after  I  hed  w^ashed  up  t' 
dishes,  I  went  to  sit  wi'  Sarah  Fisher,  who's  bad  off 
wi'  t'  fever ;  and  when  I  came  back  Ben  was  stand- 
ing at  t'  door,  and  folks  wer'  running  here,  and  run- 


The  IIallam  Succession. 


27 


ning  there,  and  all  t'  village  was  fair  beside  itscln. 
We  wer'  just  reading  a  bit  in  t'  Bible,  wlicn  consta- 
bles knocked  at  t'  door  and  said  they  M-aiited  Jjcn. 
My  Iiciirt  sank  into  my  slioes,  Miss  IIallam,  and  1 
said,  '  That's  a  varry  unlikely  thing,  lads ;  you're  just 
talking  for  talkincr's  sake.'  And  Jerry  Oddv  said, 
'Xay,  we  bcan't,  dame;  Jonathan  Clougb  is  dying, 
and  he  says  Ben  Craven  shot  him.''  Then  I  said, '  llu'll 
die  wi'  t"  lie  on  his  lips  if  he  says  that,  thou  tell  him 
so.'  And  Jerry  Oddy  said,  '  Not  T,  dame,  keep  a  still 
tongne  i'  thy  mouth,  it'll  mebbe  be  better  for  thee.' " 

"  Martha  !  How  could  you  boar  it  ?  " 

"I  didn't  think  what  I  wer'  bearing  at  t'  time, 
Miss  Ila'.lam  ;  I  wer'  just  angry  enongli  for  any  thing ; 
and  I  wer'  kind  o'  angi-y  wV  Ben  takkin'  it  so  quiet 
like.  'Speak  np  for  thysen,  lad,'  I  said;  'liesn't  ta 
got  a  tongue  i'  thy  head  to-neet? '  " 

"  Poor  Ben !     AV'liat  did  lie  say  ? " 

"  lie  said,  '  Thou  be  still,  mother,  and  talk  to  none 
but  God.  I'm  as  innocent  o'  this  sin  as  thou  art ; ' 
and  I  said,  '  I  believe  thee,  my  lad,  and  God  go  wi' 
thee,  Ben.'  There's  one  thing  troubles  me.  Miss 
IIallam,  and  it  bothered  t'  scpiire,  too.  Ben  vras  in 
his  Sundav  clothes — that  wasn't  odd,  for  he  was  o-oiiii!: 
to  t'  chapel  wi'  me — but  Jerry  noticed  it,  and  he 
asked  Ben  where  his  overlooker's  brat  and  cap  was, 
and  Ben  said  they  wer'  i'  t'  room ;  but  they  wern't 
there.  Miss  IIallam,  and  they  hevu't  found  'em 
either." 


!  .; 

I 


ti 
it 


28 


The  IIallam  Succession. 


"  That  is  Ptranire." 


a 


Ay,  its  varry  queer,  and  t'  constables  seemerl  to 
tliiiik  ^o.  Jerry  nivver  liked  Ben,  and  he  said  to  nie, 
'  Well,  dame,  it'ji  a  great  pity  that  last  o'  t'  Cravens 
should  swing  hinisen  to  death  on  t'  gallows.'  IJiit  I 
told  him,  'Don't  thee  be  so  sure  that  Ben's  t'  last  o' 
t'  Cravens.  Tliou's  niakkin'  thy  count  without  Provi- 
dence, Jerry ; '  and  I'm  none  feared,"  slie  added, 
with  a  burst  of  confidence;  "  I'll  trust  in  God  yet! 
I  can't  see  him,  but  I  can  feel  him." 

"  And  you  can  hold  fast  to  his  hand.  Sister  Martha ; 
and  the  darker  it  gets,  you  can  cling  the  closer,  until 
tli5  daylight  breaks  and  the  shadows  flee  away." 

"  That  I  can,  and  that  I  will !  Look  there,  my 
dearies ! "  and  she  j^ointed  to  a  little  blue  and  white 
tea-pot  on  the  high  mantle-shelf,  above  the  hearth  on 
which  they  w  ere  sitting.  "  Last  night,  when  they'd 
taken  Ben  away»  and  I  couldn't  finish  t'  psalm  and 
I  coukbrt  do  much  more  praying  than  a  little  bairn 
thet's  flayed  and  troubled  in  t'  dark  night,  I  lifted  my 
eyes  to  thet  tea-pot,  and  I  knew  t'  words  thet  was  on 
it,  and  they  wer'  like  an  order  and  a  promise  a'  in 
one;  and  I  said,  'There!  thet's  enough,  Lord!'  and 
I  went  to  my  bed  and  slept,  for  T  knew  there  'nd  l)e 
a  deal  to  do  to-dav,  and  nothing;  weakens  me  like 
missing  my  sleep." 

"  And  did  you  sleep,  Martha? " 

"  Ay,  I  slept.    It  w\asn't  hard  \vi'  t'  promise  I'd  got." 

Then  Phyllis  took  a  chair  and  stood  upon  it,  and 


The  IIallam  Succession. 


29 


carefully  lifted  down  the  tea-pot.  It  was  of  coarse 
l>lue  and  white  ])ottcry,  and  had  been  made  in  Staf- 
furdsliire,  when  the  art  was  eme'-o-innj  from  its  rude- 
ness, and  when  the  pcojde  were  half  barbarous  and 
wholly  irreligious — one  of  half  a  dozen  that  are  now 
worth  more  than  if  made  of  the  rarest  china,  the 
"  IMuc  Wesley  Tea-pot ;  rude  little  objects,  yet 
formed  by  loving,  reverential  hands,  to  commemorate 
the  apo.-tolie  labors  of  Johr.  Wesley  in  that  almost 
savage  district.  Ilis  likeness  was  on  one  side,  and  on 
the  otiier  the  words,  so  often  in  his  mouth,  *'  In  God 
we  trudy 

Phyllis  looked  at  it  reverently ;  even  in  that  poor 
portraiture  recognizing  the  leader  of  men,  the  dig- 
nity, the  intelligence,  and  the  serenity  of  a  great  soul. 
She  put  it  slowly  back,  touching  it  with  a  kind  of 
tender  respect ;  and  then  the  two  girls  went  home. 
In  the  green  aisles  of  the  park  the  nightingales  were 
singing,  and  the  sweet  strength  of  the  stars  and  tiie 
macfic  of  the  moon  touched  each  heart  with  a  thou2;ht- 
ful  melancholy.  Richard  and  Antony  joined  them, 
and  they  talked  softly  of  the  tragedy,  with  eloquent 
pauses  of  silence  between. 

On  the  lowest  terrace  they  found  the  squire — 
Fanny  walking  with  quiet  dignity  l)eside  him. 
lie  joined  Eli::abeth  and  Richard,  and  discussed 
with  them  the  plans  he  had  been  forming  for  the 
unraveling  of  the  mystery.  He  had  thought  of 
every  thing,  even  to  the  amount  of  money  necessary. 


Gi) 


The  [Iallam  Succession. 


1    '^^ 


;i,t    .; 


i 

1 

ii 

"  TI.ivG  thoy  no  relations  i "  asked  Kichard,  a  litflo 
c;iri()ii>ly.  It  fieenied  to  liiiii  that  the  stjiiire's  kind- 
ness w;'uS  a  trille  ollicimis.  However  h>\vlv  families 
might  be,  he  believed  tliat  iu  trouble  a  noble  inde- 
pendencio  wcjuld  make  them  draw  together,  just  as 
birds  that  scatter  wide  in  the  sunshine  nestle  up  to 
each  other  in  storm  and  cold.  So  he  asked,  "Have 
they  no  relatives  i  " 

"  She  has  two  brothers  Ilkley  way,"  said  the 
squire,  with  a  dubious  smile.  "  1  nivver  reckoned 
mucli  on  them." 

"Don't  you  think  she  ought  to  send  for  them?" 

"  Nay,  I  don't.  You're  young,  Richard,  lad,  and 
you'll  know  more  some  day;  but  J'll  tell  you  before- 
hand, if  you  iver  hev  a  favor  to  ask,  ask  it  of  any 
body  l)ut  a  relation — you  may  go  to  lifty,  and  not 
find  one  at  hes  owt  o'  sort  about  'em." 

Thoy  talked  for  half  an  liour  longer  in  a  desultory 
fashion,  as  those  talk  who  are  full  of  thoughts  they 
do  not  share ;  and  when  they  parted  Kichard  asked 
Elizabeth  for  a  rose  she  had  irathered  as  ihev  walked 
home  too-ether.  He  asked  it  disiinctlv.,  the  beamino; 
glance  of  his  dark  eyes  giving  to  the  rcfjuest  a  mean- 
ing she  could  not,  and  did  not,  mistake.  Yet  she  laid 
it  in  his  hand,  and  as  their  eyes  met,  he  knew  that  as 
"there  is  a  budding  morrow  in  the  midnight,"  so 
also  there  was  a  budding  love  in  the  rose-gift. 


'I'liK  IIam.am  SrccEssiox. 


31 


'g 


id 

IS 

Bo 


CriAPTFJl  IT. 

"Tamwitii  thee,  and  no  iiian  slmll  sot  on  thee  to  hnri  thco," 
Acts  xviii,  10. 

"There  I  will  meet  with  thee,  nnd  1  will  romniuno  with  thee  from 
above  the  mercy-scat."   Kxotl.  xxv,  2.'. 

nVTO  man  liveth  unto  liiuisclf.  In  that  o;rocn,  flovv- 
J_M  cry  Eden,  with  tlie  soft  winds  blowing  in  at 
tlie  open  doors  and  windows,  and  the  white  .sunshine 
glorifying  every  thing,  tiiere  v;as  the  whimper  of  sor- 
row as  well  as  the  whisper  of  love.  The  homely  life 
of  the  village,  with  its  absorbing  tragedy,  touched  all 
hearts;  for  men  and  women  belie  their  nature  when 
tliey  do  not  weep  with  those  that  weep. 

At  the  close  of  the  London  season  the  Elthama 
returned  to  their  country  home,  and  there  wa::  much 
visiting  and  good-will.  One  evening  they  were  sit- 
ting in  Elthani  drawing-room  after  dinner.  The 
squire  had  been  discussing  the  Clough  tragedy  with 
great  warmth ;  for  Lord  Elthani  had  not  unnaturally 
judged  Ben  Craven  upon  the  apparent  evidence,  and 
was  inclined  to  think  his  position,  whether  he  was 
innocent  or  guilty,  one  of  great  danger.  Ilallam 
would  not  see  things  in  any  such  light.  1  le  had  lived 
only  in  the  morally  healthy  atmosphere  of  the  woods 
and  iiolds,  and  the  sinful  tran^edies  of  life  had  not 


IVl 


The  Uallam  Slccessiun. 


i 


II 


htm  ai'tujil  to  him.  True,  he  hud  read  of  them  in 
his  weekly  paper,  hut  it  was  a  dill'erent  thing  when 
they  came  to  his  own  door,  and  called  for  his  active 
sympathy. 

'•  Uight  is  rii,dit,  Eltham,"  lie  i^aid,  with  the  em- 
pliasis  of  one  closed  liand  striking  the  other ;  and  it 
'ud  he  a  varry  (pieer  thing  if  right  should  turn  out  to 
be  wrong.     It'll  do  nowt  o'  t'  sort^  not  it." 

"  Uut,  llallam,  it  seems  to  me  *hat  you  hcv  made 
up  your  mind  that  Craven  is  riglit — right  or  wrong — 
and  lawyer  Swale  told  me  t'  evidence  was  all  against 
him." 

"  Swale  !  "  replied  the  squire,  snapping  his  fingers 
disdainfully.  ''  Why-a!  Swale  nivver  told  t'  truth  i' 
all  his  life,  if  he  nohbut  lied  t'  time  to  make  up  a 
lie.  As  for  Bingley,  I  wish  I  lied  sent  him  over  t' 
seas  when  I  hed  t'  chance  to  do  it — he's  none  lit  to 
breathe  f  air  in  a  decent  country." 

"  But  Swale  says  that  VAW  Laycock  has  acknowl- 
edged that  he  also  saw  Craven  in  his  working  clotlies 
running  ^ver  t'  moor  just  about  t'  time  Clough 
was  shot,  and  Bill  and  Craven  were  at  one  time  all 
but  brothers." 

"  Ay,  ay  ;  but  there's  a  lass  between  'em  now — 
what  do  you  make  o'  that  ?  " 

"  As  far  as  I  can  think  it  out,  it's  against  Craven." 

"  Then  think  twice  about  it,  Elthain,  and  be  sure 
to  change  thy  mind  t'  second  time  ;  for  I  tell  thee, 
Craven  is  as  innocent  as  thee  or  me  ;  and  thougli  t' 


! 


TiiK  Hallam  Succkbsion, 


3;J 


iiido 


all 


5» 


tlevil  iind  t'  lawyui;^  hv\  all  t'  cvidcnco  on  their 
side,  ni  lay  thoe  twenty  soveivigns  that  right  '11  win. 
Wliat  dost  ta  say,  Pliyllis,  deario  i  " 

And  Phyllis,  who  had  heun  watcliini,^  his  largo, 
kindly  face  with  the  greatest  admiration,  smiled  con- 
fidently back  to  him,  and  answered,  "  I  think  as  you 
do  Uncle  ILallam, 

"  '  For  right  is  riglit,  clnco  God  is  fJod  ; 

And  riglit  tho  day  must  win  ; 
To  doubt  would  bo  disloytdty, 

To  falter  would  bo  sin.'  " 

Hallani  looked  proudly  at  her,  and  then  at  his  op- 
ponent, who,  with  glistening  eyes,  bowed,  and  an- 
swered :  •'  My  dear  young  lady,  that  settles  tho  (ques- 
tion, here.  I  wish  with  a'  my  heart  it  did  so  in  ivery 
court  in  t'  kingdom;  but,  squire,  thou  knows  little 
o'  til  is  world,  I'm  feared." 

"  What  by  that  ?  I  don't  want  to  know.  As  far 
as  I  can  judge,  t'  knowledge  of  t'  world  is  only  an 
acquaintance  wi'  all  sorts  o'  evil  and  unjust  things. 
But  come  thy  ways,  Eltham,  and  let's  hev  a  bit  of  a 
walk  through  t'  park.  I  hear  t'  cuckoos  telling 
their  names  to  ivery  tree,  and  ivery  bird  in  them,  and 
there's  few  sounds  I  like  better,  if  it  bean't  a  nightin- 
gale singing." 

It  was  getting  late,  and  the  squire's  proposition 
was  generally  indorsed.  The  whole  party  resolved  to 
walk  to  the  park  gates,  and  the  carriage  and  Antony's 
saddle-horse  were  ordered  to  meet  them  there.     It 


"'VJ*T^-'      ■>■  t  ■■ 


^mmm 


34 


The  IIallam  Succession. 


ii'Bt 


WHS  a  cle]'<j:litfnl  ovcniiiu:,  full  of  an  iii(lcsonbal)le 
tranquillity — a  tranquillity  not  at  all  disturbed  by  the 
c?'aUv  of  the  rail  in  the  clover,  or  the  plaintive  minor 
of  the  cuckoo  in  the  thick  groves.  Elthani  and  the 
is<juire  talked  earnestly  of  the  coming  election. 
Phyllis,  leaning  on  Antony's  arm,  was  full  of  thought, 
and  Kichard  and  Elizabeth  fell  gradually  a  little  be- 
hind them.  In  that  soft  light  her  white  garments 
and  her  fair  loveliness  had  a  peculiar  charm.  She 
reminded  Richard  of  some  Greek  goddess  full  of 
grace  and  large  serenity.  lie  had  resolved  not  to 
tell  her  how  dear  she  was  to  him  nntil  he  had  better 
prepared  the  way  for  such  a  declaration ;  but  when 
the  time  comes  the  full  heart  mnst  speak,  though  it 
be  only  to  call  the  beloved  one's  name.  And  this 
was  at  first  all  E' chard  could  say  : 

"  Elizabeth  !     Dear  Elizabeth  !  " 

She  recognized  the  voice.  It  was  as  if  her  soul 
liad  been  waiting  for  it.  Erom  the  sweetest  depths  of 
her  consciousness  she  whispered  "  Richard, "  and  with 
the  word  made  over  her  full  heart  to  him.  They 
stood  one  wonderful  moment  looking  at  each  other, 
then  he  drew  her  to  his  breast  and  kissed  her.  The 
sweetest  strongest  words  of  love  were  never  writ- 
ten. They  are  not  translatable  in  earthly  language. 
Richard  was  dumb  with  happiness,  and  Elizabeth  un- 
derstood the  silence.  As  they  rode  home  and. 
sauntered  up  the  terraces,  Antony  said,  "  What  a  dull 
evening  we  have  had  ; "  but  Phyllis  was  of  the  ini- 


TiiK  II\F.r.AM  Succession. 


35 


of 
vitli 
hey 
ler, 
The 
vrit- 
.age. 
inl- 
and, 
dull 
ini- 


tiated, and  knew  better.  Slie  looked  at  Elizabeth  and 
smiled  Itrightlj,  while  Eichard  elasped  tighter  the 
dear  hand  he  was  holding. 

About  an  hour  later  Phyllis  M'cnt  to  Elizahetirs 
room.  It  was  a  large  chamber  open  to  the  east  and 
south,  with  polished  oaken  floors,  and  hung  with 
white  diniity.  She  sat  at  one  of  the  open  southern 
windows,  and  the  wind,  which  gently  moved  the 
snowy  curtains,  brought  in  with  it  the  scent  of 
bleaching  clover.  There  was  no  light  but  that  shadow 
of  twilight  which,  in  English  summers,  lingers  until 
it  is  lost  in  the  dawning.  But  it  was  quite  sufiicient. 
She  turned  her  face  to  meet  Phyllis,  and  Phyllis 
kissed  her,  and  said, 

"  X  know,  Elizabeth  ;  and  I  am  so  glad." 

"Eichard  told  you?" 

"  No,  indeed  !  llichard  is  too  much  astonished  at 
his  own  happiness  to  speak  of  it  to-night.  l>ut  when 
one  loves,  one  understands  naturally.  It  has  made 
nie  very  happy.    Why,  Elizabeth,  you  are  weeping  !  " 

"  I  am  strangely  sorrowful,  Phyllis.  A  shadov/ 
which  I  cannot  account  for  chills  me.  ^  <ju  know 
th;it  I  am  neither  imaginative  nor  sentimental;  but  I 
am  weeping  to-night  for  grief  v;hich  I  apprehend, 
hut  which  does  not  exist." 

"  Why  do  that  ?  The  ills  that  never  come  are  just 
the  ills  tliat  give  us  the  sorest  and  most  useless  sor- 
row. They  arc  not  provided  for — no  grace  is  prom- 
ised for  them." 


' 


i         f 

1 

1 

1 
'J 

1'     ■ 

i 

11 

!  i 

36 


The  Ham.am  Succession. 


"  That  may  be,  Phyllis,  but  these  intangible  griefs 
are  very  real  ones  while  they  haunt  us." 

"I  once  knew  a  Methodist  preacher  who,  when- 
ever he  felt  himself  haunted  by  prospective  cares  and 
griefs,  took  a  piece  of  paper  and  reduced  them  to 
writing,  and  so  '  faced  the  squadron  of  his  doubts.' 
lie  told  me  that  they  usually  vanished  as  he  mustered 
them.  Elizabeth,  there  are  more  than  sixty  admoni- 
tions against  fear  or  unnecessary  anxiety  in  the 
Bible,  and  these  are  so  various,  and  so  positive,  that  a 
Christian  has  not  actually  a  legitimate  subject  for 
worry  left.  Come,  let  us  face  your  trouble.  Is  it  be- 
cause in  marrying  Richard  you  will  have  to  give  up 
this  beautiful  home  ? " 

"  That  possibility  faces  me  every  day,  Phyllis. 
When  Antony  marries,  he  v.-ill,  of  course,  bring  his 
wife  here,  and  she  will  be  mistress.  I  might,  for 
father's  sake,  take  a  lower  place,  but  it  would  be  hard. 
Father  did  not  marry  until  his  three  sisters  were  set- 
tled, but  Antony  lives  in  another  generation.  I  can 
hardly  hope  he  will  be  so  thoughtful." 

"  Do  you  fear  that  uncle  will  object  to  your  mar- 
linge  with  Richard  ?  " 

"  No ;  he  is  very  fond  of  Richard,  and  very  proud 
of  him.  Yesterday  he  made  me  notice  now  strongly 
Richard  resembled  Colonel  Alfred  Ilallam,  who  was 
the  cavalier  hero  of  our  family.  And  the  likeness  is 
wonderful." 

"  Has  money  any  thing  to  do  with  it  ? " 


The  Hallam  Succesrion. 


37 


"Nothing." 

"  I  Girting  with  Kicliard?-' 

"  I  tliink  so — the  feeling  is  one  of  a  fear  of  long  or 
final  separation — a  shadow  like  an  abyss  which  nei- 
ther my  love  nor  my  hope  can  cross.  I  find  that  I 
cannot  follow  out  any  dream  or  plan  which  includes 
Eichard ;  my  soul  stumbles  in  all  such  efforts  as  if  it 
was  blind.  Now  is  there  any  promise  for  an  uncer- 
tain condition  like  this  ?" 

"  Yes,  dear,  there  is  a  promise  with  a  blessing  added 
to  it.  '  1  will  bring  the  blind  by  a  way  that  they 
knew  not;  I  will  kad  them  in  paths  that  they  have 
not  known  :  1  will  make  darkness  light  before  them, 
and  crooked  things  straight.' "  Isa.  xlii,  16. 

"  Dear  Phyllis,  whnt  a  little  comforter  you  are ! 
T  will  be  happy.  Indeed,  I  have  reason,  for  I  never 
dreamed  of  a  lover  like  Richard — and  he  says  it  was 
the  merest  accident  that  brought  you  to  Europe  this 
summer."' 

"Did  Hichard  say  'accident?'  Do  you  know, 
Elizabeth,  I  think  what  men  call  'accident'  is 
really  God's  own  part — his  special  arrangement  or  in- 
terposition. We  were  going  to  Saratoga,  and  then  one 
night  Bishop  Elliott  called,  and  said  he  was  going  to 
Europe,  and  as  he  spoke  we  received  a  letter  saying 
the  rooms  which  we  had  always  occupied  were  not  to 
bo  had,  and  the  Bishop  said,  '  Go  M'ivh  me  to  Europe,' 
and  so  in  five  minutes  we  had  decided  to  do  so. 
Richard  will  dislike  to  return   to  America  without 


J 


Mi 


38 


The  IIallam  Succession. 


you ;  have  you  thouglit  of  the  inany  changes  you 
must  face?  and  some  deprivations  also,  Elizabeth. 
We  are  not  rich.  Our  home,  beautiful  in  its  way,  is 
very  different  from  IIallam  Hall ;  our  life  altogether 
is  unlike  yours." 

"  I  fear  nothing  of  all  that,  Phyllis.  But  my  mar- 
riage until  Antony  marries  is  out  of  the  question.  I 
could  not  leave  father  until  he  has  another  daughter. 
That  is  a  thing  not  to  be  contemplated." 

"  Ah,  Elizabeth,  in  my  selfishness  I  had  forgotten 
that !  I  was  only  thinking  that  when  K'chard  had 
you,  he  could  better  spare  me,  and  that  John  and  I 
might  have  a  hope  also.  But,  of  course.  Uncle  IIal- 
lam comes  first." 

"  Yes ;  as  long  as  my  father  needs  me,  my  first 
duty  is  to  him." 

"  Lven  if  it  be  to  the  end  of  his  life  ? " 

"  Tliat  is  an  event  I  never  dare  to  call  to  mind.  My 
soul  shrinks  back  from  the  thought.  A  good  parent 
is  immortal  to  a  good  child,  I  tliink." 

She  said  it  very  calmly,  but  no  one  would  have 
thought  of  disputins;  her  position.  The  still  assured 
face  partially  uplifted,  and  the  large  white  hands 
firmly  clasped  upon  her  knee,  were  a  kind  of  silent 
amen  to  it. 

"  Then  Phyllis  said  "  Good-night  "  and  went  away  ; 
but  dim  as  the  light  was,  she  took  with  her  a  certain 
sense  of  warmth  and  color.  The  long  pink  dressing- 
gown  she  had  worn  and  the  pink  rose  in  her  hair 


n 


I' 


^ 


The  IIaliam  Succession. 


39 


had  made  a  kind  of  glow  in  the  corner  of  the  wide 
window  where  she  had  sat.  "  How  l)eautiful  she  is  !  " 
The  words  sprang  spontaneously  to  Elizabeth's  lips ; 
and  she  added  to  them  in  her  thonglits,  "  Few  girls 
are  so  lovely,  so  graceful,  and  so  clever,  and  yet  she 
is  as  pure  and  unspoiled  by  the  world  as  if  God  had 
just  made  her." 

The  formal  ratification  of  the  engagement  was  very 
quietl}'  done.  The  squire  had  a  conversation  with 
Richard,  and  after  it  went  for  a  long  walk  in  the  park. 
When  he  next  met  his  daughter  he  looked  at  her 
steadily  with  eyes  full  of  tears,  and  she  went  to  him, 
and  put  her  arms  around  his  neck,  and  whispered 
some  assurance  to  him,  which  he  repaid  w^itli  a 
hearty  "  God  bless  thee,  Elizabeth  !  " 

Antony  was  the  least  pleased.  He  had  long  had  a 
friendship  with  George  Eltham,  Lord  Eltham's 
younger  son ;  and  among  many  projects  which  the 
young  men  had  discussed,  one  related  to  the  marriage 
of  Elizabeth.  She  had,  indeed,  no  knowledge  of  their 
intentions,  which  were  on  a  mercenary  basis,  but  this 
did  not  prevent  Antony  from  feeling  that  Richard 
had  in  some  degree  frustrated  his  plans.  But  he  al- 
lowed himself  no  evidences  of  this  feeling ;  he  gave 
Richard  his  congratulations,  and  in  a  merry  way 
"supposed  that  the  kindest  thing  he  could  now  do 
for  all  parties  was  to  choose  a  wife  also." 

But  very  soon  he  ordered  his  horse  and  rode 
thoughtfully  over  to  Eltham.     The  Hon.  George  was 


1 


i  '•    ! 

:t  '. 


W 


!:^i 


40 


The  Hall  am  Succekrion. 


in  liis  apartinoiits  readini^  "  Blackwood,"  though  there 
was  a  riding  party  gathering  on  the  lawn. 

"  Are  yon  not  going  witli  them  ? "  asked  Antony, 
indicating  the  laughing  group  outside  witli  a  motion 
of  his  hand. 

"  Not  I.  I  hope  to  do  something  more  with  my 
life  than  l)e  my  elder  brother's  lieutenant.  Last 
night  I  spoke  to  Lord  Eltharn  concerning  our  inten- 
tioris.  lie  thinks  well  of  them,  Antony,  and  prom- 
ises all  tlie  help  he  can  give  us." 

"  I  am  sorry  to  tell  you,  George,  that  Elizabeth  is  to 
marry  cousin  Fontaine.  The  engagement  is  formally 
made  and  sanctioned." 

"  I  am  very  sorry.     It  is  a  great  disappointment  to 


jj 


me. 

"You  were  too  dilatory.  T  advised  you  to  speak 
to  Elizabeth  some  months  ago." 

"  I  tried  to  do  so,  but  it  was  impossible  to  say 
pretty  things  to  her.  I  felt  abashed  if  I  tried  to  com- 
pliment her,  and  she  always  appeared  so  unconscious 
of  a  fellow,  that  it  was  depressing." 

"•  Well,  it  is  too  late  now." 

"  How  do  you  know  that  ?  AVhen  Mr.  Fontaine  has 
gone — " 

"  It  will  not  make  a  particle  of  difference,  George ; 
let  me  tell  you  that.  Elizabeth  will  be  true  to  him, 
if  she  never  sees  him  again.  I  know  her,  you  do 
not." 

"  What  is  to  be  done,  then  ? " 


The  Hall  am  Succkssion. 


4i 


M 


"I  was  thinking  of  Selina  Digby." 

"  O  jou  know  she  is  not  pretty  at  all !  " 

"  We  agreed  not  to  let  such  things  as  that  influ- 
ence us." 

"  And  she  is  older  than  I  am." 

"  She  has  £50,000,  that  is  more  than  double  Eliza- 
beth's fortune.  A  man  can't  have  every  thino-.  It 
is  entirely  at  her  own  disposal  also.  Your  brother-in- 
law  is  far  too  much  absorbed  in  politics  to  interfere 

the  ground  there  is  clear  for  you." 

"  If  I  succeed  ?  " 

"  I  will  promise  to  find  capital  equal  to  yours. 
What  did  my  lord  say  concerning  our  plan  ? " 

"  Jle  said  we  must  have  some  instruction,  and  that 
he  would  speak  to  Sir  Tliomas  Harrington.  My 
father  secured  his  seat  in  Parliament,  and  he  is  sure 
to  allow  us  to  enter  his  house.  We  shall  have  every 
facility  there  for  acquiring  a  rapid  practical  knowl- 
edge of  banking  and  finance.  I  told  father  it  was 
that  or  the  colonies.  I  have  no  idea  of  being  '  only 
Lord  Francis's  brother.' " 

''  Money  is  the  axle  on  which  the  world  turns, 
George.  AVhen  you  and  I  have  it  we  can  buy  titles 
— if  we  want  them." 

The  fever  of  fortune-making  had  seized  both  young 
men.  They  were  ambitious  in  the  most  pei-sonal 
sense  of  the  word.  George's  position  as  younger  son 
constantly  mortified  him.  He  had  had  dreams  of 
obtaining  honor  both  as  a  scholar  and  a  soldier,  but 


42 


The  ILvLLAM  Successio:^. 


lie  liiid  satisfied  himself  that  for  one  career  he  had  not 
the  mental  ability,  and  for  the  other  neither  the 
physical  courage  nor  endurance  necessary.  Of  mere 
rank  he  was  not  envious.  lie  had  lived  among  noble- 
men, and  familiarity  had  bred  its  usual  consequence. 
But  lie  did  want  money.  lie  fully  recognized  that 
gold  entered  every  earthly  gate,  and  he  felt  within 
himself  the  capacity  for  its  acquirement,  lie  had 
also  precedents  for  this  determination  which  seemed 
to  justify  it.  The  Duke  of  Norham's  younger  son 
had  a  share  in  an  immense  brewery  and  wielded  a 
power  far  beyond  that  of  his  elder  brother,  who  was 
simply  waiting  for  a  dukedom.  Lord  Egremont,  a 
younger  son  of  the  Earl  of  Soho,  controlled  large 
amounts  of  railway  stock,  and  it  was  said  held  a  mort- 
gage on  the  family  castle.  To  prove  to  his  father  and 
mother  that  no  law  of  primogeniture  could  disinherit 
him,  appeared  to  George  Eltham  an  object  worth 
stn'vinfi;;  for. 

With  these  thoughts  simmering  in  his  heart  he 
met  Antony  Hallam  at  Oxford.  They  speedily  be- 
came friends.  Antony  wanted  money  also.  But  in 
him  the  craving  arose  from  a  more  domineering  am- 
bition, lie  wished  to  rule  men,  to  be  first  every- 
where, lie  despised  the  simple  provincial  title  to 
which  he  was  born,  and  the  hall,  with  all  its  sweet 
gray  antiquity,  was  only  a  dull  prison.  He  compared 
its  mediaeval  strength,  its  long  narrow  lattices,  its  low 
rambling  rooms,  its  Saxon  simplicity,  with  the  grand 


The  Hallam  Slcckssiok. 


43 


n 


, 


mansions  of  modern  chito  in  which  he  visited.  It 
must  be  remembered  that  it  is  only  recently  old 
houses  and  old  furniture  and  early  English  have  be- 
come fashionable.  Antony's  drc^am  of  a  home  M'as 
not  of  llallam,  but  of  a  grander  Eltliam  castle,  whose 
rooms  should  bo  twice  as  large  and  lofty  and  splendid. 

He  would  control  men  through  their  idol,  gold  ;  he 
would  buy  some  old  earldom,  and  have  orders  and 
honors  thrust  upon  him.  His  long,  honorable  de- 
scent would  be  a  good  foundation  to  build  upon.  He 
told  himself  that  the  Hallams  ought  to  have  built 
upon  it  generations  ago.  He  almost  despised  his  an- 
cestors for  the  simple  lives  they  had  led.  He  could 
not  endure  to  think  of  himself  sitting  down  as  squire 
Hallam  and  ruling  a  few  cottagers  and  tilling  a  few 
hundred  acres.  In  George  Eltham  he  found  a  kin- 
dred spirit.  They  might  work  for  different  motives, 
but  gold  was  the  aim  of  both. 

Many  plans  had  been  entertained  and  discussed,  but 
they  had  finally  settled  upon  a  co-partnership  in 
tinance.  They  would  discount  bills,  make  advances, 
and  secure  government  contracts.  The  latter  was  the 
special  aim  of  Antony's  desires.  But  they  were  not 
foolisli  enough  to  think  they  could  succeed  without 
some  preliminary  initiation,  and  this  they  proposed  to 
acquire  in  the  great  banking  house  of  Sir  Thomas 
Harrington,  M.  P.  Lord  Eltham  had  approved  the 
plan.  It  now  remnined  to  secure  the  squire's  agree- 
ment and  co-operation.     As  for  the  money  necessary, 


■  sass^iBB' 


II 


44 


TllH    1 1  ALL  AM    SlCCKSSION. 


(TiLM)r<^e  Eltliuiii  proposed  to  acquire  it  hy  marriage. 
Antony  had  his  own  phin  ;  he  was  only  waiting  until 
the  Fontaines'  visit  was  over,  and  "that  contemptible 
Craven  all'air  settled." 

For  he  saw  plainly  that  for  the  time  the  squire's 
mind  was  full  of  outside  interests,  and  when  Antony 
discussed  a  subject  zo  vital  to  himself,  he  was  resolved 
his  father  should  be  in  a  position  to  feel  its  impor- 
tance, and  give  it  his  undivided  attention.  Personally 
he  had  no  ill-feeling  toward  Ben  Craven,  but  he  was 
annoyed  at  the  intrusion  of  so  vulgar  an  object  of 
sympathy  into  his  home.  The  squire's  advocacy  at 
Eltham  had  irritated  him.  He  was  quietly  angry  at 
Elizabeth  and  Phyllis  daily  visiting  the  dame.  And 
when  the  Methodist  preacher  had  been  twice  to 
rialhim  to  see  the  squire  on  the  subject,  he  could  not 
treat  the  alf:iir  witli  his  usual  tolerant  indifference. 

"  I  liiive  chiuiged  my  mind."  lie  said,  one  evening, 
with  that  smiling  positiveness  wliicli  is  so  aggravat- 
ing; ""I  iim  very  much  inclined  to  believe  that  Ben 
Craven  did  kill  Cnougli." 

The  squire  looked  at  him,  first  with  amazement, 
then  with  anoer,  and  asked,  "  When  did  ta  lose  thv 
good  sense,  and  thy  good-will,  son  Antony  ? " 

"  I  had  a  talk  with  Swale  to-day,  and  in  his  judg- 
ment— " 

"  Thou  knows  what  I  think  o'  Swale.  Was  there 
ever  a  bigger  old  cheat  than  he  is  ?  Pll  put  my  heart 
afore  Swale's  judgment,  Ben  Craven's  all  right." 


The  IIali.am  Slcckssion. 


45 


It, 

IV 


re 
,rt 


"  He  will  liave  stronij  evideiicu  and  a  clever  lawyer 
airainst  him.     lie  is  sure  to  be  convicted." 

"  Don't  thee  reckon  to  know  so  much.  Ben's  got  a 
clever  lawyer,  too;  hut  if  he'd  nobbut  (iod  and  his 
mother  to  plead  for  him,  his  cause  'ud  be  in  varry 
good  hands,  thou  may  be  sure  o'  that." 

"  I  am  only  saying,  father,  what  Swale  says  every- 
where." 

"  I'll  warrant  he'll  talk.  There's  no  tax  on  lying. 
My  word,  if  there  was,  Swale  'd  hev  to  keep  his 
mouth  shut." 

"  I  cannot  imagine,  father,  what  makes  you  trouble 
yourself  so  much  about  the  Cravens." 

"  Thou  can't,  can't  ta  ?  Then  thou  canst  imagine 
gratitude  for  faithful  service  given  cheerfully  for 
three  hundred  years.  Why-a  lad,  'twas  a  Craven 
saved  Alfred  Ilallam's  life  at  Worcester  fight." 

"  I  suppose  he  paid  him  for  the  service.  Any  how 
the  debt  is  not  ours." 

"  Ay,  is  it.  It's  my  debt,  and  it's  thine,  too.  Ben 
may  live  to  do  thee  a  service  for  aught  thou  knows." 

Antony  smiled  contemptuously,  and  the  scpiiru 
continued,  almost  angrily,  "There's  things  more  un- 
likely ;  look  here,  my  lad,  nivver  spit  in  an}''  well : 
thou  may  hev  to  drink  of  t'  water." 

When  the  words  were  said  the  squire  was  sorry  for 
tliem.  They  had  come  from  his  lips  in  that  forceful 
I)rophetic  way  some  speeches  take,  and  they  made  an 
unpleasant  impression  on  both  father  and  son  ;  jwst 


46 


The  11  a  I, lam  Slxcession. 


Ruch  an  iinpiTssion  as  a  bad  dreain  leaves,  which  yet 
seems  to  be  wlioUv  irrelevant  and  unaccountable. 

Craven  was  in  Leeds  jail,  and  the  trial  was  fixed 
for  the  summer  term.  All  things  may  be  better 
borne  than  suspense,  and  all  were  glad  when  J 'en 
could  liave  a  fair  hearing.  But  every  thing  was 
against  him,  and  at  the  end  of  the  second  day's  trial, 
the  sqnirc  came  home  in  sincere  trouble;  Ben  had 
been  found  guilty,  but  a  conviction  of  liis  innocence, 
in  spite  of  the  evidence,  seemed  also  to  liave  pos- 
sessed the  jury,  for  they  had  strongly  reconnnended 
him  to  her  majesty's  mercy. 

Elizabeth  and  Phyllis  went  with  sick,  sorrowful 
lieart  to  sec  the  dame.  The  strain  lia^  old  upon  her 
before  the  trial,  and  she  liad  lost  1  heerfulness 
somewhat.  But  she  had  come  to  a  place  now  where 
anger  and  sense  of  wrong  and  impatience  were  past. 

''  Lost  conlidence,  sister  Phyllis,"  she  said  ;  "  not  I ; 
1  hev  oidy  stopped  reckoning  on  any  man  or  woman 
now,  be  't  queen's  sen  ;  and  I  hev  put  my  whole 
trust  i'  God.  Such  like  goings  on  as  we've  lied  ! 
Paper  and  ink  and  varry  little  j  stice ;  but  God  '11  sort 
ivery  thing  afore  long." 

"  The  case  is  to  come  before  the  queen." 

"  That's  well  enougli.  Miss  Ilallam,  but  I'll  tak'  it 
mysen  into  God's  council-chamber — there's  no  key  on 
that  door,  and  there's  no  fee  to  pay  either.  Ile'Il  put 
Ivery  thing  right,  see  if  he  doesn't!" 

"And  besides,  Sister  Martha,  things  may  not  bp.  as 


Tin;  IIai.lam  8l'c(^K!«,si()N. 


47 


as 


far  wronc;  as  wi'  (liiiik  they  ai'c — may  not  l)e  wrong 
fit  all.     (lod  moves  in  a  mysterious  wav." 

"  And  ho  needs  to,  Sister  J'livllis.  There's  many  a 
ponl  'nd  run  awav  from  him,  even  v,  hen  h.e  was  com- 
in^^  to  iielp  'em,  ii'  thev  knew  it  was  him/' 

"  I  understand  what  you  mean,  ]\[arlha — 'as  a  thief 
in  the  night.'  IJe  breaks  all  bars  and  bursts  all  doors 
closed  against  him  when  he  visits  either  a  soul  or  a 
cause.  I  heard  you  wi're  at  Leeds.  ])o  you  mind 
telling  us  how  things  went  ?  I'he  squire  will  not  talk 
to  any  one." 

"I  nivver  was  one  to  shut  my  grief  up  i'  my  heart, 
and  let  it  poison  my  lii'e;  not  T,  indeed.  It  seemed 
to  me,  though,  as  varry  little  tight  were  made  for  Ben 
Clough  afore  he  died;  he'd  signed  a  paper,  declaring 
positive  as  it  were  Ben  who  shot  him;  and  t'  case 
were  half  done  when  that  were  said.  Then  Bingley 
were  sworn,  and  he  said,  'as  he  were  coming  ower 
t'  moor,  about  half  past  six,  he  heard  a  shot,  and  saw 
Ben  Craven  come  from  behind  a  whin  bush,  and  run 
toward  t'  village;  and  a  minute  after  Bill  Laycock 
came  in  sight;  and  Ben,  he  said,  ran  past  him,  also  ; 
and  Laycock  looked  after  Ben,  and  said  to  Ijinoley — 
'  that's  Ben  Craven  ;  he's  in  a  bit  of  a  hurry,  I  think." 

"  AVas  Laycock  coming  from  the  moor  also  'i " 

"Nay,  he  was  coming  from  t'  village,  and  was  going 
across  t'  moor  to  a  knur  match  on  Eltham  Common." 

"  Did  Laycock  swear  to  that  ? " 

"  Ay,  he  did.     He  were  varry  loth  to  do  it ;  for 


r 


48 


The  IIallam  Succession. 


Hon  and  liiin  lied  lukcd  together  when  they  were 
lads,  and  been  thick  as  thaek  iver  since,  till  j\larv 
Clongli  came  between 'em.  But  I  noticed  one  thing, 
and  I  think  the  jury  saw  it,  too — wlien  Laycock  were 
asked,  'if  he  wTre  sure  it  was  Ben  that  passed  liiin,' 
he  turned  white  to  tlie  varry  lips,  and  could  S'/arco 
make  out  to  whis])er,  ''Ay,  he  were  sure.''  Then  Uen 
looked  at  him,  and  I'll  nivver  forget  that  look,  no, 
nor  any  body  else  that  saw  it,  and  least  of  a'  t'  man 
lies  got  it." 

"  You  think  Laycock  swore  to  a  lie  ? " 

"  I  know  he  swore  to  a  lie," 

"It  is  a  pity  that  Ben's  working-suit  has  never 
been  found." 

"  It  '11  come  to  light ;  see  if  it  doesn't." 

"Who  spoke  for  Ben?" 

"  I  did.  I  told  t'  truth,  and  there's  none  that 
knows  me  lies  a  donbt  o'  that.  I  said  that  Ben  came 
home  a  bit  early.  lie  lied  his  cup  o'  tea  wi'  me,  and 
I  told  him  how  bad  off  Sarah  Fisher  was ;  and  I 
said,  '  ril  wash  up  t'  tea  things,  lad,  and  go  bide  wi' 
her  till  it's  chapel  time;  and  so  thou  be  ready  to  go 
wi'  me.'  Before  I  went  out  I  looked  into  Hen's  room, 
and  he'd  dressed  himsen  up  i'  iiis  Sunday  clothes,  and 
were  sitting  studying  i'  a  book  called  '  jMechanics ; '  ami 
I  said,  '  VV^hy,  Ben !  Whatever  lies  ta  put  thy  best 
clothes  on  for  ?'  I  knew  right  well  it  was  for  Mary 
Clough,  but  I  wasn't  too  well  pleased  wi'  ^lary,  and 
80  I  couldn't  help  letting  him  see  ns  he  wei'en't  deceiv- 


1 J 


The  Hallam  Succession. 


49 


ing  1110 ;  and  Ben  said,  '  iS^ivvcr  thee  iiiiiid,  iiiotlier, 
'  'lat  clothes  I've  on,  and  don't  be  too  late  for  t' 
clu:pcl.'  " 

"  And  yet  Bingley  and  Laycock  swore  that  Ben 
had  his  working-clothes  on  ?" 

"Ay,  they  sware  that." 

"  You  are  come  into  deep  waters,  Martha." 

^'  Ay,  I  am  ;  but  there's  One  on  t'  water  wi'  nie.  I 
hev  his  hand,  and  he's  none  going  to  let  me  sink. 
And  good-night  to  you,  dearies,  now  ;  for  I  want  to 
be  alone  wi'  him.  He  isn't  far  oft";  you  can  tak'  t' 
word  of  a  sorrowful  woman  that  he  lets  himsen  bo 
found,  if  nobbut  you're  i'  earnest  seeking  him." 

She  turned  from  them,  and  seated  herself  l)eioro 
her  lonely  hearthstone,  and  Phyllis  saAv  her  glance 
upward  at  the  four  words,  that  even  in  the  darkest 
night  was  clear  to  her— "//i  God  we  i/-ust.'' 

'"  Martha  used  to  be  so  curious,  so  gossippy,  so 
well  acquainted  wich  all  her  neighbors,  so  anxious  for 
their  good  opinion,  that  it  strikes  me  as  singular," 
said  Elizabeth,  "that  she  seems  to  have  forwtten 
the  whole  vill;ig.>,  and  to  be  careless  as  to  its  verdict. 
J)t)es  sorrow  make  us  indifferent,  I  wonder?" 

"Xo,  I  think  not;  but  the  happy  look  at  things 
upon  their  own  level—the  earth-level;  the  sorrowful 
look  up." 

Kot  far  from  Martha  s  garden  gate  they  met  the 
Methodist  preacher.  Jle  was  goinir  to  see  IMartha, 
but  hearing  of  her  wish  to  be  alone,  he  turned  and 


50 


The  II  all  am  Succession. 


walked  with  Phyllis  and  Elizabeth  toward  the  park. 
He  was  a  little  man,  with  an  unworldly  air,  and  very 
clear  truthful  eyes.  People  came  to  their  cottage 
doors  and  looked  curiously  at  the  trio,  as  they  went 
slowly  toward  the  hall,  the  preacher  between  the  girls, 
and  talking  earnestly  to  them. 

"  Well  I  nivver  ! "  said  old  Peggy  Ilowarth,  nodding 
her  head  wisely,  "  what  does  ta  think  o'  that,  Jane 
Sykes  ? " 

"  It  beats  ivery  thing !  There's  Ezra  Dixon.  lie's 
on  his  way  to  a  class-meeting,  I'll  lay  thee  owt  ta 
likes ;  Ezra ! " 

"  Well,  woman  !     What  does  ta  want  ? " 

"  Does  ta  see  Miss  Hallam  and  that  American  lass 
wi'  t'  preacher  ? " 

"  For  sure  I  do.    They're  in  varry  good  company." 

"  They'll  hev  been  at  Martha  Cravens,  depend  on't. 
They  say  Martha  taks  it  varry  quiet  like." 

"  Ay,  she's  none  o'  them  as  whimpers  and  whines. 
Kow  if  it  wer'  thee,  Peggy,  thou'd  worrit,  and  better 
worrit ;  as  if  worritting  wer'  thy  trade,  and  thou  lied 
to  work  at  it  for  thv  victuals.  Martha's  none  like 
that.     Is  ta  going  to  thy  class  to-night  ?  " 

"Xay,  then,  I'm  not  going." 

"  I'd  go  if  I  was  thee,  Peggy.  Thou'lt  hev  thysen 
to  talk  about  there,  and  thou'lt  not  be  tempted  to  say 
things  about  t'  Cravens  thou  wont  be  able  to  stand 
up  to." 


"  I'd  hev  some 


.aman  nature  in  me,  Ezra  Dixon, 


The  Hallam  Succession. 


51 


inr 


lass 


,r  " 


if  I  was  thee.  To  think  o'  this  beini]^  t'  first  nuirder 
as  iver  was  i'  Ilallain  !  and  thou  talking  as  if  I  ought 
to  buckle  up  my  tongue  about  it." 

"  Thou  ought ;  but  'oughts'  stand  for  nothing. 
To  be  sure  thou'll  talk  about  it ;  but  go  and  talk  i' 
thy  class-meeting  wi'  Josiali  Banks  looking  i'  thy 
face,  and  then  thou'll  talk  wi'  a  kind  heart.  Do  as  I 
tell  thee." 

"Xay,  I'll  not  do  it." 

"  Thou  nivver  will  disappoint  t'  devil,  Peggy." 

Peggy  did  not  answer;  she  was  too  mucli  inter- 
ested in  the  rector's  proceedings.  He  was  actually 
crossijig  the  road  and  joining  the  ladies  and  the 
preacher. 

"Now,  then  !  Dost  ta  see  tliat,  Ezra?  "VVbativer's 
coming  to  folk  ?  Why-a !  They're  a'  going  on  to- 
gether ! " 

"  Why  not  ?  T'  rector's  a  varry  good  man.  It 
'ud  be  strange  if  he  didn't  feel  for  poor  Martha  as 
well  as  ivery  other  kind  heart.  Iler  trouble  lies  made 
a'  maks  o'  Christians  feel  too;ether." 

"If  Martha  was  nobbut  a  Church  o'  Eno-land 
woman." 

"  Dost  ta  really  think  that  t'  rector  is  cut  on  that 
sort  o'  a  pattern  ?  Not  he.  A  man  may  be  a  Chris- 
tian, Peggy,  even  if  he  isn't  a  Wesleyan  Methody. 
Them's  my  principles,  and  I'm  not  a  bit  'shamed  o' 
them." 

It  was  quite  true ;  the  rector  had  joined  the  girls 


wMHMMWIii 


*w 


i 


\  I 


■ppp 


52 


The  Hall  am  Succession. 


i'  i 


! 

I  ! 


and  tlie  preaclier,  and  they  walked  on  togotlior  as  far 
as  the  pai-k  gates,  talking  of  Martha  and  her  great 
sorrow  and  gi'eat  faith.  Then  the  preacher  tnriied 
back,  carrying  with  him  to  his  little  chapel  the 
strength  that  conies  from  real  Christian  sympathy 
and  commnnion. 

''  What  clear  proplietic  eyes  that  Mr.  North  has," 
said  ilie  rector,  as  they  walked  thoughtfully  under  the 
green  arches  of  the  elms. 

''  lie  lives  very  near  to  the  other  world,"  said 
Phyllis ;  ''  1  think  his  eyes  have  got  that  clear  far-oif 
look  with  habituidly  gazing  into  eternity.  It  is  a 
great  privilege  to  talk  to  him,  for  one  always  feels 
that  he  is  just  from  the  presence  of  God." 

"  I  have  heard  that  you  arc  a  Dissenter,  Miss  Fon- 
taine." 

"  O  no,  I  am  not.     1  am  a  Methodist." 

"  That  is  what  I  meant." 

"  But  the  two  are  not  the  same.  I  am  quite  sure 
that  the  line  between  Dissent  and  Methodism  iias 
been  well  delined  from  the  l)eginning." 

The  rector  smiled  tolerantly  down  at  PhvUis's 
bright  thoughtful  face,  and  said  :  "Do  young  ladies  in 
America  study  theological  history  ? " 

"  I  think  most  of  them  like  to  understand  the 
foundation  upon  wliich  their  spiritual  faith  is  built. 
I  have  found  every  side  studv  of  Methodism  verv  in- 
teresting.  Methodism  is  a  more  chai'itable  and  a  more 
spiritual  thing  than  Dissent." 


ii 


Thk  Hallam  Successiox. 


53 


c.    " 


if 


"  Are  yon  sure  of  tluit? " 

"  Yes.  Dissenters  l)egiin  overy-wliere  with  show- 
ing liow  fallen  was  tlu;  (.'liurcli,  liow  unwortlij  were 
her  ministers ;  but  Methodism  began  every-where 
with  showing  lier  hearers  how  fallen  they  themselves 
were,  and  how  utterly  nnworthy.  Dissent  was  con- 
vineed  that  Episcopacy  was  wrong;  Methodism  sprang 
from  a  sense  of  personal  guilt.  Dissent  discussed 
soliemes  of  church  government,  as  if  the  salvation  of 
the  world  depended  upon  certain  forms;  Methodism 
had  one  object,  to  save  souls  and  inculcate  personal 
holiness.  Dissent  boldly  separated  herself  from  the 
Church;  Methodism  clun.g  with  loving  affection  to 
her  motliei-.  Her  separation  was  gradual,  and  accom- 
panied with  fond  regrets." 

"  I  like  that  reasoning,  Miss  Fontaine." 

"  Do  not  give  me  credit  for  it ;  it  comes  from  those 
who  have  authority  to  spcaix  upon  such  matters.  But 
ought  not  a  young  lady  to  know  as  much  about  the 
origin  and  constitution  of  her  Church  as  of  her  coun- 
try ? " 

"I  suppose  she  ought.  What  do  you  say,  Miss 
Hallam  ? " 

"  That  I  will  begin  and  study  the  history  of  my 
Church.  I  am  ashamed  to  say  I  know  nothing  about  it." 

"And  I  sny  that  I  will  look  into  Methodism  a  lit- 
tle. John  AVesley,  as  a  man,  has  always  possessed  a 
great  attraction  to  me.  It  was  a  pity  he  left  the 
Church." 


ffe 


!       I 


'   I 


il  ^ 


I  ' 


lii! 


!'  I 


i 

!        i 

i 

1 

' 

54 


The  Hallam  Succession. 


"  But  he  never  did  leave  it.  Jnst  as  St.  Petei  and 
St.  Paul  and  St.  John  went  vip  to  the  temple  at 
Jemsaloni  to  pray,  so  Wesley,  until  the  very  last, 
frequented  the  Church  ordinances.  I  think  he  was 
really  a  very  Iligh-Churchinan.  He  was  even  preju- 
diced against  Preshyterians ;  and  a  very  careless  re;uler 
of  his  works  must  see  that  he  was  deeply  impressed 
with  the  importance  of  Episcopacy,  and  that  he  re- 
garded it  as  an  apostolic  institution.  If  he  were  to 
return  to  this  world  again,  he  would  undoubtedly  give 
in  his  membership  to  the  American  Methodist  Epis- 
copal Church. 

"  But  remember  liow  he  countenanced  field-preach- 
ing and  religious  services  without  forms." 

"Do  von  think  it  a  sin  to  save  souls  out  of  church  ? 
Don't  you  think  the  Sermon  on  the  Mount  a  very 
fair  precedent  in  favor  of  lield-preaching  ?  " 

"  Miss  Fontaine,  you  argue  like  a  woman.  That 
question  is  not  in  logical  sequence.  Here  come  Mr. 
Fontaine  and  the  squire.  I  hope  some  other  time 
you  will  allow  me  to  resume  this  conversation." 

The  squire's  face  brightened  when  he  saw  the 
rector.  "A  'good-evening,'  parson.  Thou  thought 
I'd  be  in  a  bit  o'  trouble  to-night,  didn't  ta? " 

"  I  knew  your  kind  heart,  squire,  and  that  it  would 
be  sad  for  Martha  and  Ben  Craven  to-night." 

"Ay,  to  be  sure."  He  had  clasped  Phyllis's  hand 
in  one  of  his  own,  and  turned  round  with  the  party ; 
as  he  did  so,  drawing  the    rector's  attention  by  a 


The  Hall  am  Slx'cessiox, 


and 


icr 


siVnlficant  "fiance    to  Elizabotli,  vvlio  had  fallen   be- 
hind with  Eicliard. 

"  I  am  very  glad  if  that  is  the  case,  squire." 
"Ay,  it  pleases  me,  too.     Bnt  about  poor  JVIartlia, 
hev  you  seen  her  ? " 

"  She  wishes  to  be  alone." 

"And  no  wonder.  I'm  sure  I  don't  know  what- 
iver  nuist  be  done." 

"  Perhaps  the  queen  will  have  mer^'y." 

"Mercy!  He'll  get  a  life  sentence,  if  that  is 
mercy.  Hanging  isn't  any  better  than  its  called.  ^  a 
be  bound ;  but  if  I  was  Ben,  I'd  a-deal  rather  b^  .ung, 
and  done  wi'  it.     That  I  would  !  " 

"  I  think  Ben  Craven  will  yet  bi  proved  innocent. 
His  mother  is  sure  of  it,  nnclo." 

"  That's  t'  way  wi'  a  mother.  You  can't  make  'em 
understand— they  will  hang  on." 

"  Yes,"  said  the  rector.  "  JVIother-love  almost  sees 
miracles." 

"  Mother-love  does  see  miracles,"  answered  Phyl- 
lis. "  The  mother  of  Moses  would  '  hang  on,'  as 
uncle  defines  it,  and  she  saw  a  miracle  of  salvation. 
So  did  the  Shunammite  mother,  and  the  Syro-phoe- 
nician  mother,  and  millions  of  mothers  before  and 
eince.  Just  as  long  as  Martha  hopes,  I  shall  hope ; 
and  just  as  long  as  Martha  prays,  she  will  hope." 

"Does  ta  think  Martha  can  pray  against  t'  Eno-Hsh 
Constitution?"  * 

"I   heard   the   rector  praying   against  the  atmo^ 


I     I 


I 


r  '! 


!i 


! 


i 


li 


56 


The  Hallam  Succession. 


])]ioric  laws  last  SuiK^ay,  and  you  said  every  word 
after  him,  uncle.  AVlien  you  prayed  for  fine  weather 
to  get  the  hay  in,  did  you  expect  it  in  ppite  of  all  the 
conditions  against  it — falling  barometer,  gathering 
clouds  ?     If  you  did,  you  were  expecting  a  miracle." 

"  Ay,  I  told  t'  beadle,  mysen,  that  there  wasn't  a 
bit  o'  good  praying  for  fine  weather  as  long  as  t'  wind 
kept  i'  such  a  contrary  quarter ;  and  it's  like  enough 
to  ruin  to-night  again,  and  heigh,  for  sui . !  its  begun 
mizzling.  We'll  hev  to  step  clev^er,  or  we'll  be  wet 
before  we  reach  t'  hall." 

The  rector  smiled  at  the  squire's  unconscious  state- 
ment of  his  own  position  ;  but  the  rain  was  not  to  be 
disregarded,  and,  indeed,  before  they  reached  shelter 
the  ladies'  dresses  were  wet  through,  and  there  was 
so  many  evidences  of  a  storm  that  the  rector  deter- 
mined to  stay  all  night  with  his  friends.  When 
Elizabeth  and  Phyllis  came  down  in  dry  clothing, 
they  found  a  wood  fire  crackling  upon  the  hearth, 
and  a  servant  laying  the  table  for  supper. 
^  "  Elizabeth,  let's  hev  that  round  o'  spiced  beef,  and 
some  cold  chicken,  and  a  bit  o'  raspberry  tart,  and 
some  clouted  cream,  if  there's  owt  o'  t'  sort  in  t'  but- 
tery. There's  nothing  like  a  bit  o'  good  eating,  if 
there's  owt  wrong  wi'  you." 

The  rector  and  the  squire  were  in  their  slippers, 
on  each  side  of  the  anq:)le  hearth,  and  they  had  each, 
also,  a  long,  clean,  clay  ])lpe  in  their  mouth.  The 
serenity  of  their  faces,  and  their  air  of  thorough  com- 


•    ■:,": 


Thk  II  all  am  Succession. 


57 


5J 


rtli, 


if 


fort  was  a  delightful  ])icture  to  Phyllis.  She  placed 
herself  close  to  her  uncle,  with  her  head  resting  on 
his  shoulder.  The  two  men  were  talking  in  easy,  far- 
apart  sentences  of  "  tithes,"  and,  as  the  subject  did 
not  interest  her,  she  let  her  eyes  wander  about  the 
old  room,  noting  its  oaken  walls,  richly  carved  and 
almost  black  with  age,  and  its  heavy  oaken  furniture, 
the  whole  brightened  up  with  many-colored  rugs, 
and  the  gleaming  silver  and  crystal  on  tlie  high  side- 
board, and  tlie  gay  geraniums  and  roses  in  the  deep 
bay  windows.  The  table,  covered  with  snowy  danuisk, 
seemed  a  kind  of  domestic  altar,  and  Phyllis  thought 
she  had  never  seen  Elizabetli  look  so  jjrrandiv  fair 

CD  t/ 

and  home-like  as  slio  did  that  hour,  moving  about  in 
the  light  of  the  fire  and  candles.  She  did  not  wonder 
that  Itichard  heard  nothing  of  the  conversation,  and 
that  his  whole  attention  was  given  to  his  promised 
wife. 

The  squire  got  the  delicacies  he  wanted,  and  really 
it  appeared  as  if  his  advice  was  very  good  medicine. 
Happiness,  hope,  and  a  sense  of  gratitude  was  in  each 
heart.  The  old  room  grew  wonderfully  cozy  and 
bright ;  the  faces  that  gathered  round  the  table  and 
the  lire  were  fall  of  love,  and  sweet,  reasonable  con- 
tentment. AYlien  supper  was  over  Richard  and 
Elizabeth  went  quietly  into  the  great  entrance  hall, 
where  there  was  always  a  little  iire  burning.  They 
had  their  own  hopes  and  joys,  in  which  no  heart, 
however  near  and  dear,  could  intermeddle,  and  this 


!        I 


58 


Thk  1 1  all  am  Succession. 


was  fully  recognized,  riiyllis  only  gave  them  a 
bright  smile  as  they  withdrew.  The  squire  ignored 
their  absence;  Antony  was  at  Eltham  ;  for  an  hour 
the  two  little  groups  were  as  happy  as  mortals  may 
be. 

The  rector  had  another  pipe  after  supper,  and  still 
talked  htfuliy  about  "  tithes.""  It  seemed  to  be  a 
subject  which  fitted  in  comfortably  to  the  pauses  in 
a  long  pipe.  But  when  he  had  finished  his  "thim- 
bleful "  of  tobacco,  and  shaken  out  its  ashes  care- 
fully, he  looked  at  Phyllis  with  a  face  full  of  renewed 
interest,  and  said, 

"  Squire,  do  you  know  that  your  niece  thinks  John 
Wesley  was  a  Ili<^h-Ciiurchman?" 

"What  I  meant,  sir,  was  this:  Wesley  had  very 
decided  views  in  favor  of  the  Episcopacy.  He  would 
suffer  none  to  lay  unconsccrated  hands  upon  the 
sacraments;  and  in  personal  temperament,  I  think 
he  M'as  as  ascetic  as  any  monk." 

"  Do  you  think,  then,  that  if  he  had  lived  before 
the  Eeformation  he  might  have  founded  an  order  of 
extreme  rigor,  say,  like  La  Trappc  ? " 

"Xo,  indeed,  sir!  lie  might  have  founded  an 
order,  and  it  would,  doubtless,  have  been  a  rigorous 
one ;  but  it  Avould  not  have  been  one  shut  uj)  be- 
hind walls.  It  would  have  been  a  preaching  order, 
severely  disciplined,  perhaps,  but  burning  with  all 
tlie   zeal   of  the   Kedemptionist   Fathers  on  a  mis- 


H 


sion. 


?i 


I 


The  TIallam  Succkssion. 


69 


Tlie  squire  putted  the  little  hand,  which  was  upon 
his  knee,  and  proudly  asked, 

"  Now,  then,  parson,  what  does  ta  say  to  that  ? " 

"  I  say  it  would  be  a  very  good  description  of 
'the  people  called  Methodists'  when  they  began  their 
crusade  in  England." 

"  It  is  always  a  good  description  of  them  w^hen 
they  have  missionary  work  to  do.  AVe  have  had 
brave  soldiers  among  the  Fontaines,  and  wise  states- 
men, also ;  but  braver  than  all,  wioer  than  all,  was  my 
grandfather  Fontaine,  who  went  into  the  wilderness 
of  Tennessee  an  apostle  of  Methodism,  with  the  Bible 
in  his  heart  and  his  life  in  his  hand.  If  I  was  a 
man,  I  would  do  as  Kichard  always  does,  lift  my  hat 
whenever  his  name  is  mentioned." 

"  Such  ministers  are,  indeed,  spiritual  heroes.  Miss 
Fontaine ;  men,  of  whom  the  world  is  not  worthy." 

"  Ah,  do  not  say  that  I  It  was  worthy  of  Christ. 
It  is  worthy  of  them.  They  are  not  extinct.  They 
are  still  preaching — on  the  savannas  of  the  south- 
west— on  all  the  border-lands  of  civilization — among 
the  savages  of  the  Pacilic  isles,  and  the  barbarians  of 
Asia  and  Africa;  voices  crying  in  the  wilderness, 
'God  so  loved  the  world,  that  ho  gave  his  only  be- 
gotten Son'  for  its  salvation.  A  ^Methodist  preacher 
is  necessarily  an  evangelist.  Did  you  ever  happen 
to  read,  or  to  hear  "Wesley's  'charge'  to  his  j)reaeh- 
ers  ? " 

"  No,  I  never  hoard  it,  Miss  Fontaine." 


60 


TiiK  II  ALL  AM  Succession. 


"  If  ta  knows  it,  Phyllis,  dearie,  let  lilin  liev 
it.     Tso  \varri:nt  it  '11  tit  his  ulHee  ver^'  well.'' 

"Yes,  I  kiiuw  it;  I  have  heard  it  niaiiy  a  time 
from  my  grandfather's  li[js.  In  his  old  age,  wlien 
he  was  addressing  young  preachers,  he  never  e^aid 
any  thing  else  to  them.  '  Observe,'  charged  AVesley, 
'  it  is  not  your  bnsiness  to  preach  so  many  times,  or 
to  take  care  of  this  or  that  society,  but  to  save  as 
many  souls  as  you  can.' '' 

"Xow,  then,  that's  enough.  Phyllis,  dearie,  lift  t' 
candle  and  both  o'  you  come  wi'  me  ;  Pve  got  sum- 
mat  to  say  mysen  happen." 

lie  Jiad  that  happy  lo(;k  on  his  face  which  people 
wear  who  are  consciou--  of  having  the  power  to  give 
a  pleasant  surprise.  He  led  them  to  a  large  room 
above  those  in  th^^  oast  wing  which  were  specially  his 
own.  It  was  a  handsome  bedroom,  but  evidentlv  one 
that  w^as  rarel .  used. 

"Look'ee  here,  now;"  and  he  lifted  the  candle 
toward  a  picture  over  the  lire  place.  "  Who  do  you 
mail'  that  out  to  be  i" 

"  John  Wesley,"  said  Pliyllis. 

"For  sure;  it's  John  Wesley,  and  in  this  room 
he  slept  at  intervals  for  thirty  years.  My  great 
grandfather,  Squire  Gregory  JTallam,  was  a  Meth- 
odist— one  o'  t'  lirst  o'  tliem — and  so  you  see,  Phyllis, 
my  lass,  yon  hev  come  varry  naturally  by  your  w'ay 
o'  thiid<ing." 

The  rector  was  examininii:  the  far^e  with  cfrcat  in- 


The    ITam.am  Succkssion. 


fU 


terest.  "It  is  a  woiuk'rhil  coiinteiiance,"  lie;  said; 
''take  a  look  at  it,  Miss  Foiitainu,  and  isco  it'  it  docs 
not  bear  out  wliat  I  accidentally  said  about  J.a 
1  rappe. 

">.'o,  indeed,  it  does  not!  I  allow  that  it  is  the 
face  of  a  refined,  thorongli-bred  ecclesiastic.  He  was 
the  son  of  the  Cluirch." 

*'  Yes ;   he  came,  indeed,  from  the  triho  of  Levi." 

''It  is  a  fine,  classical,  clearly-chiseled  face — the 
face  of  a  scholar  and  a  i^entleman." 

''A  little  of  the  fanatic  in  it — admit  that.  I  have 
seen  pictures  of  grand  inquisitors,  by  Velasfpiez, 
which  resend)le  it." 

"  You  must  not  say  such  things,  iny  dear  rector. 
Look  again.  I  admit  that  it  is  a  clever  face,  and  I 
have  seen  it  compared  to  that  of  Richelieu  and 
Loyola,  as  uniting  the  calm  iron  will  and  acute  eye 
of  the  one  with  tlio  inventive  genius  and  habitual 
devotion  of  the  other;  but  I  see  more  than  this, 
there  is  the  permeation  of  that  serenity  which  comes 
from  an  assurance  of  the  love  of  God." 

"God  love  thee,  Phyllis!  Thou'lt  be  makkin'  a 
Methodist  o'  me,  whether  I  will  or  no.  I  hed  no 
idea  afore  there  was  a'  that  in  t'  picture.  I 
wont  stay  here  any  longer.  Tlianks  be  !  It's  sleep- 
ing-time, missec." 

"  I  should  like  to  sleep  in  this  room,  squire." 

"AVhy,  then,  rector,  thou  shall.  A  bit  o'  fire  and 
some  aired  bed-clothes  is  a'  it   wants.     Thou's  sure 


f 


i 


! 


!| 


HI 


i.      'r: 


ti 


62 


The  IIallam  Succession. 


to  sleep  well  in  it,  and  tliou'lt  Lev  t'  sunrise  to  wake 
tliee  up." 

And  Phyllis  thought,  when  she  saw  him  in  the 
morning,  that  he  had  kept  some  of  the  sunshine  in  his 
face,  lie  was  walking  up  and  down  the  terrace  softly 
humming  a  tune  to  himself,  and  watching  the  pigeons 
promenade  with  little,  timid,  rapid  steps,  making 
their  necks  change  like  opals  with  every  movement. 
The  roofs  and  lintels  and  the  soft  earth  was  still  wet, 
but  the  sun  shone  gloriously,  and  the  clear  air  was 
full  of  a  thousand  scents. 

"  1:1  ovv  beautiful  all  is,  and  how  happy  you  look," 
and  Phyllis  put  her  hand  in  the  rector's,  and  let  him 
lead  her  to  the  end  of  the  terrace,  where  she  could 
see  tlie  green  country  flooded  with  sunshine. 

"  Did  you  sleep  well  in  Wesley's  chamber  ? " 

"  I  slept  very  well ;  and  this  morning  the  pleas- 
antest  thing  happened.  Ujion  a  little  table  I  saw  a 
Bible  lying,  and  I  read  the  morning  lesson,  which 
was  a  very  hnppy  one ;  then  I  lifted  another  book 
upon  the  stand.  It  was  'The  Pilgrim's  Progrcj-s;' 
and  this  was  the  passage  I  lighted  upon :  '  The  Pil- 
grim they  laid  in  a  large  upper  chamber  facing  the 
sunrisiT-'g.  The  name  of  the  chamber  was  Peace.' 
There  was  a  pencil-mark  against  the  passage,  and  I 
fancy  John  Wesley  put  it  there.  It  was  a  little  thing, 
but  it  has  made  me  very  happy." 

"  I  can  understand." 

"  God  bless  you,  child  !     I  am  sure  you  can." 


fi 


i 


'm 


:i 


Thf.  Hallam  Succession. 


63 


CHAPTER  III. 

"  He  shall  call  upon  mo,  uud  I  will  nnswcr  him  :  I  v  ill  bo  with  him 
in  trouble;  I  will  deliver  iiim,  and  honor  him."     Tsa.  xci,  15. 

"  Alas  for  hourly  change  I    Alas  for  all 
The  loves  that  from  his  hand  proud  Youth  lets  fall, 
Even  as  the  beads  of  a  told  rosary  I  " 

THAT  very  day  Richard  received  a  letter  froir' 
Bishop  Elliott.  He  was  going  to  the  Holy  Land 
and  wished  Richard  to  join  him  in  Rome,  and  then 
accompany  him  to  Palestine.  Richard  preferred  to 
remain  at  Hallam,  bnt  botli  Elizabeth  and  Phyllis 
thonglit  he  ought  to  respond  to  the  Bishop's  desire. 
He  was  an  aged  man  among  strangers,  and,  apart  from 
inclination,  it  seemed  to  be  a  duty  to  accede  to  his 
request.  So  rather  reluctantly  Richard  left  Hallam, 
lialf-inclined  to  complain  that  Elizabeth  was  not  sorry 
enough  to  part  with  him.  In  truth  she  was  conscious 
of  feeling  that  it  would  be  pleasant  to  be  a  little 
while  alone  with  the  great  joy  that  had  come  to  her; 
to  consider  it  quietly,  to  brood  over  it,  and  to  ask 
some  questions  of  her  soul  which  it  must  answer  very 
trutlifully. 

People  of  self-contained  natures  weary  even  of 
happiness,  if  happiness  makes  a  constant  demand 
upon  them.  She  loved  Richard  with  the  first  love  of 
her  heart,  she  loved  him  very  truly  and  fondly,  but 


i  i 


i!i 


64 


The  Hallam  Succession. 


she  was  also  very  liappy  tlirougli  the  long  summer 
days  sitting  alone,  or  \vitli  Phyllis,  and  sewing  pure, 
loving  thoughts  into  wonderful  pieces  of  fine  linen 
and  canil)ric  and  embroidery.  Sometimes  Phyllis 
helped  her,  and  they  talked  together  in  a  sweet  con- 
fidence of  the  lovers  so  dear  to  them,  and  made  little 
j)lans  for  the  future  full  of  true  unsellishness. 

In  the  cool  of  the  day  they  walked  through  the 
garden  and  the  park  to  see  Martha ;  though  every 
day  it  became  a  more  perplexing  and  painful  duty. 
The  poor  woman,  as  time  went  by,  grew  silent  and 
even  stern.  She  heeded  not  any  words  of  pity,  she  kept 
apart  from  the  world,  and  from  all  her  neigbors,  and 
with  heart  unwaveringly  fixed  upon  God,  waited  with 
a  grand  and  pathetic  patience  the  answer  to  her 
prayers.  For  some  reason  which  her  soul  approved 
she  remained  in  the  little  chapel  with  her  petition, 
and  the  preacher  going  in  one  day,  unexpectedly, 
found  her  prostrate  before  the  communion  tal)le, 
pleading  as  mothers  oidy  can  plead.  He  knelt  down  ])e- 
side  her,  and  took  her  hand,  and  prayed  with  her  and 
for  her. 

Quite  exhausted,  she  sat  down  beside  him  after- 
•ward  and  said,  amid  heart-breaking  sobs,  ''It  isn't 
Ben's  life  Fni  askiuir,  sir.  (lod  i>;ave  him,  an.d  he's  a 
fair  riirht  to  tak'  him,  when  and  how  he  will.  I  hev 
given  up  asking  for  t'  dear  lad's  life.  But  0  if  he'd 
nobbat  clear  his  good  name  o'  the  shameful  deed  !  I 
know  he's  innocent,  and  God  knows  it ;   but  even  if 


The  IIallam  Succession. 


05 


ill  miner 
ig  pure, 
le  linen 
Phyllis 
3et  con- 
de  little 

igli  the 
li  every 
111  duty, 
lent  and 
she  kept 
ors,  and 
ted  with 
to  her 
pproved 
petition, 
leotedly, 
n  tal)le, 
lown  ho- 
lier and 

in  after- 
It  isn't 
\d  he's  a 
.  I  hev 
)  if  he'd 
leed !  I 
;  even  if 


they  hang  Ben  lirst,  I'll  give  my  Maker  no  peace  till 
he  brings  the  guiity  to  justice,  and  sets  t'  innocent  in 
t'  leet  o'  his  countenance." 

"'The  kingdom  of  heaven  suffereth  violence,' 
Martha,  'and  the  violent  take  it  by  force.'  Don't  get 
weary.  Christ  had  a  mother,  and  he  loved  her. 
Does  he  not  love  her  still  ? " 

"Thank  you,  sir,  for  that  word.  I'll  he  sure  and 
remind  him  o'  her.  I'd  forget  that  there  was  iver 
any  mother  but  me  ;  or  any  son  but  my  son." 

"  Say  a  word  for  all  other  weeping  mothers.  Think 
of  them,  j\[artha,  all  over  the  world,  rich  and  poor, 
Christian  and  heathen.  How  many  mothers'  hearts 
are  breaking  to-day.  You  are  not  alone,  ]\[artha.  A 
great  company  are  waiting  and  weeping  with  you. 
Don't  be  afraid  to  ask  for  them,  too.  There  is  no 
limit  to  God's  love  and  power." 

"  ril  pray  for  ivery  one  o'  them,  sir." 

"  Do,  Martha,  and  you'll  get  under  a  higher  sky. 
It's  a  good  thing  to  pray  for  ourselves ;  it's  a  far 
grandei  thing  to  pray  for  others.  God  bless  you, 
sister,  and  gi\'e  rou  an  answer  of  peace." 

Very  shortly  ;;fter  this  conversation  one  of  those 
singular  changes  in  ])ublic  opinion,  which  cannot  be 
accounted  for,  began  to  manifest  itself.  After 
Clough's  positive  dying  declaration,  it  was  hardly  to 
be  expected  that  his  daughter  Mary  could  show  any 
kindness  to  her  old  lover,  Ben  Craven.  But  week 
after  week  went  by,  and    people  saw   that  slie  posi- 


r 

i 

Y 

i 

i 

l\ 

■  i 

Iff 

1 

i 

1    ! 

■ 

1 

J 

S           1 
1 

1             1 

i     1 

1 

';V    M 

1'!          ! 

1-1       : 

Jjii  „„ 

66 


The  ITallam  Succession. 


tively  refused  to  sp'^ak  to  Bill  Laycock,  and  that  she 
shrank  even  from  his  passing  shadow,  and  tliey  be- 
gan to  look  queerly  at  the  man.  It  amounted  at  hrst 
to  nothing  more  than  that ;  but  as  a  mist  creeps  over 
the  la^'dscape,  and  gradually  possesses  it  altogether, 
so  this  chill,  adverse  atmosphere  enfolded  him.  He 
noticed  that  old  acquaintances  dropped  away  from 
him  ;  men  went  three  miles  farther  off  to  get  a  shoe 
put  on  a  horse.  No  one  could  have  given  a  clear 
reason  for  doing  so,  and  one  man  did  not  ask  another 
man  "  why  ?  "  but  the  fact  needed  no  reasoning  about. 
It  was  there.  At  the  harvest  festivals  the  men  drew 
away  from  him,  and  the  girls  would  not  have  him 
for  a  partner  in  any  rural  game.  He  was  asked  to 
resign  his  place  in  the  knur  club,  and  if  he  joined 
anv  cricket  elev^en,  the  match  fell  to  the  c-round. 

One  September  evening  Elizabeth  and  Phyllis  went 
to  the  villaijre  to  leave  a  little  basket  of  dainties  in  Mar- 
tha's  cottage.  They  now  seldom  saw  her,  she  was 
usually  in  tiie  chapel  ;  but  they  knew  she  was  grate- 
ful for  the  food,  and  it  had  become  all  thoy  could  do 
for  her  in  the  hard  struggle  she  was  having.  The 
trees  were  growing  bare ;  the  flowers  were  few  and 
without  scent;  the  birds  did  not  sing  any  more,  but 
were  shy,  and  twittered  and  complained,  while  tlic 
swallows  were  restless,  like  those  o-oino;  a  lonix  iourney. 
Singing  time  was  over,  life  burning  down,  it  was 
natural  to  be  silent  and  to  sigh  a  little. 

They  left  the  basket  on  Martha's  table  and  went 


TuE  Hall  AM  Sl'ccession. 


67 


that  she 
they  be- 
i  at  first 
eps  over 
ogether, 
111.  He 
ay  from 
3t  a  shoe 
11  a  clear 
;  another 
ig  about, 
leii  drew 
ave  liini 
asked  to 
le  joined 
nnd. 

rlliswent 
>s  ill  Mar- 
,  she  was 
:ii?>  grate- 
could  do 
ng.     The 
few  and 
iiore,  but 
vliile  the 
1011  rue  V. 
11,  it  was 

and  went 


quietly  up  the  street.  In  a  few  minutes  they  met  the 
preaclier,  but  he  also  seemed  strangely  solemn,  and 
very  little  inclined  to  talk.  At  the  chapel  gates  there 
were  five  or  six  people  standing.  "Wo  are  going  to 
have  a  prayer-meeting,"  he  said,  "  will  you  come  in  ?" 

"It  will  soon  be  dark,"  answered  Elizabeth,  "we 
must  reach  home  as  quickly  as  possible." 

Just  then  Martha  Craven  came  out  of  the  chapel. 
A  sorrow  nobly  borne  confers  a  kind  of  moral  rank. 
Her  neighbors,  with  respect  and  pity,  stood  aside 
silently.  She  appeared  to  be  quite  unconscious  of 
them.  At  Phyllis  and  Elizabeth  she  looked  with 
great  sad  eyes,  and  shook  her  head  mournfully.  To 
the  preacher  she  said,  "  It's  t'  eleventh  hour,  sir,  and 
no  answer  yet ! " 

"Go  thy  ways,  Martha  Craven.  It  will  come  !  It 
is  impossible  thy  prayers  should  fail !  As  the  Lord 
liveth  no  liarm  shall  come  to  thee  or  to  thine ! " 

The  plain  little  man  was  transfigured.  No  ancient 
prophet  at  the  height  of  his  vision  ever  spoke  with 
more  authority.  Martha  bowed  her  head  and  went 
her  way  without  a  word  ;  and  Elizabeth  and  Phjdlis, 
full  of  a  solemn  awe,  stood  gazing  at  the  man  whose 
rapt  soul  and  clear,  prophetic  eyes  looked  into  the 
unseen  and  received  its  assurance.  He  seemed  to 
have  forgotten  their  presence,  and  walked  with  up- 
lifted face  into  the  chapel. 

Elizabeth  was  the  first  to  speak.  "Wliat  did  he 
mean  ? " 


.M 


( 


(  I! 


08 


The  Hallam  Succession. 


"lie  has  hud  some  assurance  from  God.  lie 
hnouisr     ■ 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say,  Phyllis,  that  God  speaks  to 
men  ? " 

"Most  surely  God  speaks  to  those  who  will  hear. 
Why  should  you  doubt  it  ?  He  changeth  not.  When 
God  talked  with  Enoch,  and  Abraham  spoke  with 
God,  no  one  was  astonished.  When  Ilao-ar  wandered 
in  the  desert,  and  saw  an  angel  descend  from  heaven 
with  succor,  she  w\as  not  surprised.  In  those  days, 
Elizabeth,  men  whose  feet  were  in  the  dust  breathed 
the  air  of  eternity.  They  spoke  to  God,  and  he  an- 
swered them. 

"  Does  Methodism  believe  that  this  intercourse  is 
still  possible  \ " 

"  Methodism  knows  it  is  possible.  The  doctrine  of 
assurance  is  either  a  direct  divine  interposition  or  it  is 
a  self-deception.  It  is  out  of  the  province  of  all 
human  reason  and  philosophy.  But  it  is  impossible 
that  it  can  be  self-deception.  Millions  of  good  men 
and  women  of  every  shade  of  mental  and  physical 
temperament  have  witnessed  to  its  truth." 

"  And  you,  Phyllis « " 

"  I  know  it." 

How  wonderfully  certain  moods  of  nature  seem  to 
frame  certain  states  of  mina.  Elizabeth  never  forgot 
the  still  serenity  of  that  September  evening ;  the 
rustling  of  the  falling  leaves  under  their  feet,  the 
gleaming  of  the  blue  and  white  asters  through  the 


The  Hall  am  Succession. 


69 


misty  haze  gathering  over  the  fields  and  park.  Tlu^y 
had  expected  to  meet  the  squire  at  the  gates,  but  they 
were  nearly  at  home  ere  they  saw  him.  He  was  evi- 
dently in  deep  trouble ;  even  Fanny  divined  it,  and, 
with  singular  canine  delicacy,  walked  a  little  behind 
him,  and  forebore  all  her  usual  demonstrations. 

Antony  was  sitting  at  the  hall  lire.  His  handsome 
person  Avas  faultlessly  dressed,  and,  with  a  newspaper 
laid  over  his  knee,  he  was  apparently  lost  in  the  con- 
templation of  the  singular  effects  made  by  the  tire- 
lio'ht  amonc;  the  antlers  and  armor  that  adorned  the 
wall.  He  roused  himself  when  the  gii'ls  entered,  and 
aooloii'ized  tor  not  havini]^  come  to  meet  them ;  but 
there  was  an  evident  constraint  and  unhappincss  in 
the  home  atmosphere.  Even  the  "  bit  o'  good  eat- 
ing," which  was  the  squire's  panacea,  failed  in  his  own 
case.  Antony,  indeed,  eat  and  laughed  and  chatted 
with  an  easy  indifference,  which  finally  appeared  to 
be  unbearable  to  his  father,  for  he  left  the  table  before 
the  meal  was  finished. 

Then  a  shadow  settled  over  the  party.  Elizabeth 
had  a  troubled  look.  She  was  sure  there  had  been 
some  very  unusual  difference  between  Antony  and 
his  father.  They  soon  separated  for  the  night,  Eliza- 
beth going  with  PhvUis  to  her  room  for  a  final  chat. 
There  was  a  little  lire  there,  and  its  blaze  gave  a 
pleasant  air  of  cozy  comfort  to  the  room,  and  deep- 
ened all  its  pretty  rose  tints.  This  was  to  the  girls 
their  time  of  sweetest  contldeneo.     Thev  miirlit  bo 


I II- 


1   * 

1 

f  B    '' 

TO 


TiiK  IIallam  Succession. 


together  all  the  day,  hut  they  grew  closest  of  all  at 

this  i::oocl-iiii'"ht  hour. 

They  spoke  of  the  squire's  evident  distress,  but  all 

Elizabeth's  suppositions  as  to  the  cause  fell  distant 
from  the  truth.     In  fact,  the  s(piire  had  received  one 

of  those  blows  wdiicli  none  but  a  living  hand  can  deal^ 

for  there  are  worse  things  between  the  cradle  and  the 

grave  than  death — the  blow,  too,  had  fallen  without 

the  slightest  warning.     It  was  not  the  thing  that  he 

Lad  feared  which  had  happened  to  him,  but  the  thing 

which  he  had  never  dreamed  of  as  possible.     He  had 

been  walking  up  and  down  the  terrace  with  Fanny, 

smoking  his  pipe,  and  admiring  the   great  beds  of 

many -colored  asters,  when   he  saw  Antony  coming 

toward  him.     He  waited  for  his  son's  approach,  and 

met  him  with  a  smile.     Antony  did  not  notice  his 

remark  about  the  growing  shortness  of  the  days,  but 

plunged  at  once  into  the  subject  filling  his  whole 

heart, 

"  Father,  Geor2:e  Eltham  and  I  are  tliinkins;  of  o;o- 
ins:  into  business  too-ether," 

"  TVhatever  is  ta  saying  ?  Business  ?  "What  busi- 
ness ? " 

"  Banking." 

"  Now,  then,  be  quiet,  will  ta  ?     Such  nonsense ! " 

"  I  am  in  Jead  earnest,  father.  I  cannot  waste  my 
life  any  lono-er." 

"Who  asks  thee  to  waste  thy  life?  ITev  I  iver 
grudged  thee  any  thing  to  make  it  happy  ?    Thou  he3 


f  all  at 

but  Jill 

distant 
ved  one 
nn  dea'^ 
and  the 
ivitliout 
that  he 
e  thing 
Me  liad 
Fannj, 
)eds  of 
poiuiiig 
'Ii,  and 
ice  his 
js,  but 

whole 


of  or-o- 


t  busi- 


ise ! " 
5te  my 

I  iver 
3U  hes 


TiiK  IIallam  Succession. 


71 


lied  t'  l)est  o'  educations.  If  ta  wants  to  travel, 
there's  letters  o'  credit  waiting  for  thee.  If  ta  wants 
work,  I've  told  thee  there's  acres  and  acres  o'  wheat 
on  the  Ilallani  marshes,  if  they  were  only  drained, 
ril  iind  ta  money,  if  ta  wants  work." 

"  Father,  I  could  not  jnit  gold  in  a  jnarsh,  and  then 
sit  down  and  wait  for  the  wheat  to  grow ;  and  all  the 
wheat  on  IIallam,  unless  it  bore  golden  ears,  would 
not  satisfy  me.  George  and  I  are  going  into  Sir 
Thomas  Harrington's  for  a  few  months.  Lord  Eltham 
has  spoken  to  him.  Then  George  is  to  marry  Selina 
Digby.  She  has  fifty  thousand  pounds;  and  we  are 
going  to  begin  business." 

"  \Vi'  fifty  thousand  pounds  o'  Miss  Digby's  money ! 
It's  t'  meanest  scheme  I  iver  heard  tell  on  !  I'm  fair 
shamed  o'  thee ! " 

"  I  must  put  into  the  firm  fifty  thousand  pounds 
also ;  and  I  want  to  speak  to  you  about  it." 

"  For  sure !  How  does  ta  think  to  get  it  out  o'  me 
now?" 

"  I  could  get  Jews  to  advance  it  on  my  inheritance, 
but  I  would  do  nothing  so  mean  and  foolish  as  that. 
I  thought  it  would  be  better  to  break  the  entail.  You 
give  me  fifty  thousand  pounds  as  my  share  of  Flallam, 
'and  you  can  have  the  reversion  and  leave  the  estate  to 
whom  you  wish." 

The  squire  fairly  staggered.  Erealv  the  entail !  Sell 
Ilallani !  The  young  man  was  either  mad,  or  he  was 
the  most  wicked  of  sons. 


w 


72  The  IIallam  Succession. 

"  DoL's  ta  kiKJw  wliat  tliou  is  talking  about!  Hal- 
lam  has  been  ours  for  a  thousand  years.  0  Antony ! 
Antony!'' 

"  AVe  have  had  it  so  lone;,  father,  that  we  have 
crown  to  it  like  veirctables 


») 


"  lias  ta  no  love  for  t'  old  plat'C  ?     Look  at  it.     Is 
there   a   bonnier   spot   in  t'  wide  world?      AVliy-a! 


Tl 


lere  s  an 


old 


sa\inff. 


&» 


"  '  When  a'  t'  world  is  up  aloft, 

God's  share  will  be  fair  Ilallam-Croft.' 

Look  at  ta  dear  old  home,  and  t'  sweet  old  j^jardens, 
and  t'  great  park  full  o'  oaks  that  hev  sheltered  Sax- 
ons, Danes,  Normans — ivery  raee  that  has  gone  to 
make  up  t'  En:,    slnnan  o'  to-day." 

"  There  are  plenty  of  fairer  spots  than  IIallam.  I 
will  build  a  house  far  larger  and  more  splendid  than 
this.  There  shall  be  a  Lord  Hallam^  an  Earl  IIallam, 
perhaps.  Gold  Avill  buy  any  thing  that  is  in  the  mar- 
ket." 

"  Get  thee  out  o'  my  sight !  And  I'll  tell  Lord 
Eltham  varry  plainly  what  I  think  o'  his  meddling  in 
my  affairs.  In  order  to  set  up  his  youngest  son  I 
must  give  np  t'  bond  on  t'  home  that  was  my  fathers 
when  his  fathers  were  driving  swine,  the  born  thralls 
of  the  Kerdics  of  Kerdic  Forest.  Thou  art  no 
Hallam.  No  son  o'  mine.  Get  out  o'  my  sight 
wi'  thee ! " 

Antony  went  without  anger  and  without  hurry. 
He  had  expected  even  a  worse  scene.     He  sa.'-  down 


Tin:  Ualla^l  Su(X'Essi(»n. 


73 


It!     Hal- 
Antony  I 

We  have 

t  it.     Is 

Why-a! 


Djardens, 
•ed  8ax- 


[^one  to 


'lam.  I 
id  than 
Tallam, 
lie  mar- 

1  Lord 
ling  in 
t  son  I 
fatliers 
thralls 
irt  no 
sight 

hurry, 
uown 


by  tlio  hull  tire  to  think,  and  lie  was  by  ii»>  means 
hopeless  as  to  his  demand.  i>ut  the  squiio  had  re- 
ceived a  shock  from  which  he  never  recovered  him- 
self. It  was  as  if  some  evil  thing  had  taken  all  the 
sweetest  and  dearest  props  of  love,  and  strnck  him 
across  the  heart  with  them.  He  hud  a  real  well-defined 
heart-ache,  for  the  mental  shock  had  had  bodily  sym- 
pathies which  would  have  prostrated  a  man  of  less 
finely  balanced  ^V/y.svV/Wi?. 

AH  night  long  he  sat  in  his  chair,  or  walked  up 
and  down  his  room.  The  anger  which  comes  from 
wronged  love  and  slighted  advantages  and  false 
friendship  alternately  possessed  him.  The  rooms  he 
occupied  in  the  east  wing  had  been  for  generations 
the  private  rooms  of  the  masters  of  Hallam,  and  its 
walls  were  covered  with  their  pictures — fair,  large 
men,  who  had  for  the  most  part  lived  simple,  kindly 
lives,  doing  their  duty  faithfully  in  the  station  to 
which  it  had  pleased  God  to  call  them.  He  found 
some  comfort  in  their  pictured  presence.  He  stood 
long  before  his  father,  and  tried  to  understand  what 
he  w^ould  have  done  in  his  position.  Toward  day- 
light he  fell  into  a  chill,  uneasy  sleep,  and  dreamed 
wearily  and  sadly  of  the  old  home.  It  was  only  a 
dream,  but  dreams  are  the  hieroglvi)hics  of  the  other 
world  if  we  had  the  key  to  them ;  and  at  any  rate 
the  influences  they  leave  behind  are  real  (  nough. 

"  Poor  Martha ! "  was  the  squire's  first  thought 
on  rousins:  himself.     "I  know  now  wliat   t'  heart- 


'I  i, 


dl 


1  ' 


I  ■ 


74 


TuE  Hall  AM  SLccKssum. 


ac'lie  sho  spoke  of  is  like.     Tin  feared  1  hevii't  hvvn 
lis  sorry  as  I  luiglit  liev  been  for  her." 

Yet  tliat  very  night,  while  the  squire  was  suiter- 
iiiix  from  the  iirst  shock  of  wounded,  indi'Miant 
aiiuizeinent,  God  had  taken  IMartha's  case  in  liis  own 
hand.  The  turn  in  Ben's  trouble  began  just  wlien 
the  preacher  spoke  to  Martha.  At  that  liour  Bill 
Laycock  entered  the  village  ale-house  and  called  for 
a  pot  of  porter.  Three  men,  whom  he  knew  well, 
were  sitting  at  a  table,  drinking  and  talking.  To  one 
of  them  Bill  said,  "  It's  a  fine  night,"  and  after  a 
sulky  pause  the  man  answered,  "  It  ails  nowt."  Then 
he  looked  at  his  mates,  put  dowi .  his  pot,  and  walked 
out.     In  a  few  minutes  the  others  followed. 

Laycock  went  back  to  his  house  and  sat  down  to 
think.  There  was  no  use  fighting  popular  ill-will 
any  longer.  Mary  would  not  walk  on  the  same  side 
of  the  street  with  him.  It  was  the  evident  intention 
of  the  whole  village  to  drive  him  away.  He  remem- 
bered that  Swale  had  told  him  there  was  "  a  feeling 
against  him,"  and  advised  him  to  leave.  But  Swale 
had  offered  to  buy  his  house  and  forge  for  half  their 
value,  and  he  imagined  there  was  a  selfish  motive  in 
the  advice.  "  And  it's  Swale's  doing,  I  know,"  he 
muttered ;  "  he's  been  a-fighting  for  it  iver  since. 
Well,  I'll  tak  t'  £300  he  offers,  wi'  t'  £80  I  hev 
in  t'  house,  I  can  make  shift  to  reach  t'  other  side 
o'  t'  world,  and  one  side  is  happen  as  good  as  t' 
other  side.     I'll  go  and  see  Swale  this  varry  hour." 


The  II  all  am  Succession. 


76 


I  teen 


Lniiuit 


^% 


He  was  arrested  by  a  peculiar  sound  in  the  cellar 
beneath  his  feet,  a  sound  that  made  him  turn  pale  to 
the  very  lips.  In  a  few  moments  the  door  opened, 
and  Tim  r>in^lcy  stepped  into  the  room. 

"  Thou  scoundrel !     What  does  ta  want  here  i  " 

"  Thou  ^et  me  summat  to  cat  and  drink,  and  then 
ril  tell  thee  what  I  want." 

His  tone  was  not  to  be  disputed.  lie  was  a  des- 
perate man,  and  Lay  cock  obeyed  him. 

"  Tliou  told  me  thou  would  pjo  abroad." 

"  I  meant  to  go  abroad,  but  I  didn't.  I  got  drunk 
and  lost  my  brass.  Thou'U  hev  to  give  mc  some 
more.     I'll  go  clean  off  this  time." 

"  I've  got  none  to  give  thee." 

"  Yarry  well,  then  I'll  hev  to  be  took  up ;  and  if 
I'm  sent  to  York  Castle,  tliou'lt  liev  lodgings  varry 
close  to  me.    Mak'  up  thy  mind  to  that,  Bill  Laycock." 

"  I  didn't  kill  Clough,  and  thou  can't  say  I  did." 

Bingley  did  not  answer.  lie  sat  munching  his 
bread  and  casting  evil  glances  every  now  and  then  at 
his  wretched  entertainer. 

"  What  does  ta  want  i  " 

"  Thou  hcd  better  give  me  a  fresh  suit  o'  clothes  ; 
these  are  fair  worn  out — and  £20.  I'll  be  i'  Hull 
early  to-morrow,  and  I'll  tak'  t'  \  "ry  iirst  ship  1 
can  get." 

"  How  do  I  kno\v  thou  will  ?  " 

"  Tliou'lt  hev  to  trust  my  word — it's  about  as  good 
as  thine,  I  reckon." 


ml 


WBBB 


I  I 


Ir:' 


i!  I 


i 


ii:' 


76 


The  Hall  am  Succession. 


O  but  the  way  of  the  transgressor  is  liard  !  There 
was  nothing  else  to  be  done.  Hatefully,  scornfully, 
he  tossed  him  a  suit  of  his  own  clothes,  and  gave 
him  £20  of  his  savin_r,s.  Then  he  opened  the 
door  and  looked  carefully  all  around.  It  was  near 
midnight,  and  all  was  so  still  that  a  bird  moving  in 
the  branches  could  have  been  heard.  But  Laycock 
was  singularly  uneasy.  He  put  on  his  hat  and  walked 
one  hundred  yards  or  more  each  way. 

"  Don't  be  a  fool,"  said  Bingley,  angrily  ;  "  when 
did  ta  iver  know  any  body  about  at  this  time  o'  night, 
save  and  it  might  be  at  Ilallam  or  Crossley  feasts?  " 

"  But  where  was  ta  a'  day,  Bingley  'i  Is  ta  sure 
nobody  saw  thoe  ?  And  when  did  ta  come  into  my 
cellar  ? " 

"  I'll  tell  thee,  if  ta  is  bad  off  to  know.  I  got  into 
Hallam  at  three  o'clock  this  morning,  and  I  hid  my- 
sen  in  Clough's  shut-un  mill  a'  day.  Thou  knows 
nobody  cares  to  go  nigh  it,  since — " 

"  Thou  shot  him." 

"  Shut  up !  TJiou'd  better  let  that  subject  drop. 
I  knew  I  were  safe  there.  When  it  was  dark  and 
quiet  I  came  to  thee.  Now,  if  ta  '11  let  me  pass  thee, 
ril  tak'  Hull  road." 

"  Thou  is  sure  nobodv  lias  seen  thee  i  " 

"  Ay,  I'm  sure  o'  that.  Let  be  now.  I  hevn't 
any  time  to  waste." 

Laycock  watched  him  up  the  Hull  road  till  he 
slipped  away  like  a  shauow  into  shade.     Then  he  sat 


There 
.fully, 

gave 
the 

near 


mcr  in 


* 


The  IIallam  Succession. 


77 


down  to  wait  for  morning.  lie  would  not  stay  in 
Ihilhun  anotlicr  day.  He  blamed  himself  for  stay- 
incr  so  lonix.  He  would  take  any  offer  Swale  made 
him  in  tlie  morning.  There  would  be  neither  peace 
nor  safety  for  him,  if  Tim  Bingley  took  it  into  his 
will  to  return  to  Hallam  wheneyer  lie  wanted 
money. 

At  daylight  Dolly  Ives,  an  old  woman  who  cleanctl 
his  house  and  cooked  his  meals,  came.  She  had  left 
the  evening  before  at  six  o'clock,  and  if  any  thing 
wii^  known  of  Bingley's  visit  to  Hallam,  she  would 
likely  have  heard  of  it.  She  wasn't  a  pleasant  old 
woman,  and  she  had  not  a  very  good  reputation,  but 
her  husband  had  worked  with  Lavcock's  father,  and 
ho  liad  been  kiiul  to  her  on  several  occasions  when 
she  had  been  in  trouble.  So  she  had  "  stuck  up  for 
Bill  Laycock,"  and  her  partisanship  had  become 
warmer  from  opposition. 

It  was  at  best  a  rude  kind  of  liking,  for  she  never 
failed  to  tell  any  unkind  thing  she  heard  about  him. 
She  had,  however,  notliing  fresh  to  say,  and  Bill  felt 
relieved.  He  eat  his  breakfast  and  went  to  his  forae 
until  ten  o'clock.  Then  he  called  at  Swale's.  He 
fancied  the  lawyer  was  "  a  bit  oliisji,"  but  he  prom- 
ised him  the  money  that  night,  and  with  this  ])romise 
I  Jill  had  to  1)0  content.  Business  had  long  been 
skfck  ;  his  forge  was  cold  when  he  got  back,  and  he 
had  no  heart  to  rekindle  it.  Frightened  and  miser- 
al)le,  he  was  standino'  in  the  door  tvinoj  on  his  leather 


S-fl 


■rw" 


78 


The  Hallam  Succession. 


I 


apron,  when  he  saw  Dolly  coming  as  fast  as  she  could 
toward  him. 

He  did  not  wait,  but  went  to  meet  her.  "  What- 
iver  is  ta  coming  here  for  ?  " 

''  Thou  knows.  Get  away  as  fast  as  ta  can.  There 
hev  been  men  searching  t'  house,  and  they  hev 
takken  away  t'  varry  suit  Bingley  wore  at  Ben 
Craven's  trial.  iS'ow,  will  ta  go  (  Here's  a  shiJling, 
it's  a'  1  hev.'' 

Terriiied  and  hurried,  he  did  the  woiot  possible 
thing  for  his  own  case — he  fled,  as  Dolly  advised, 
and  was  almost  immediately  followed  and  taken  pris- 
oner. In  fact,  he  had  been  under  surveillance,  even 
before  Bingley  left  his  house  at  midnight.  Suspi- 
cion had  been  aroused  by  a  very  simple  incident. 
Mary  Clough  had  noticed  that  a  stone  jar,  which  had 
stood  in  one  of  the  windows  of  the  mill  ever  since  it 
luid  been  closed,  was  removed.  In  that  listless  way 
wliicli  apparently  trivial  things  have  of  arresting  the 
attention,  this  jar  had  attracted  Mary  until  it  had  be- 
come a  part  of  the  closed  mill  to  her.  It  was  in  its 
usual  plar'p  when  she  looked  out  in  the  morning  ;  at 
noon  it  had  disappeared. 

Some  one,  then,  was  in  the  mill.  A  strong  convic- 
tion took  possession  of  her.  She  watched  as  tlie 
sparrow-hawk  watclies  its  prey.  Just  at  dusk  she 
saw  Bingley  leave  the  mill  and  steal  away  among  the 
alders  that  lined  the  stream.  She  suspected  where  he 
was  going,  and,  by  a  shorter  route,  reached  a   field 


41 


TiiK  IIallam  Succession. 


19 


e  could 

What- 

Tliere 
ij  hev 
it  Ben 
liiJlirig, 

30ssible 
dvised, 
11  pris- 
e,  even 
Suspi- 
cideiit. 
cli  had 
since  it 
iss  waj 
ing  tlic 
lad  be- 
s  in  its 
ng  ;  at 

3on  vie- 
as  tlie 
sk  she 
ng  tlie 
ere  he 
\  field 


opposite  Laycock's  house,  and,  fi'oni  beliind  the 
liedu'e,  saw  l>ingley  push  aside  the  cellar  window  and 
crawl  in.  He  had  tried  the  door  first,  but  it  was 
just  at  this  hour  Laycock  was  in  the  ale-house. 

The  rector  was  a  magistrate;  and  she  went  to  liini 
with  her  tale,  and  he  saw  at  once  the  importance  of 
her  information,  lie  posted  the  men  who  watched 
Laycock's  house  ;  they  saw  Bingley  leave  it,  and  when 
he  was  about  a  mile  from  llallam  they  arrested  him, 
and  took  him  to  Leeds.  Laycock's  arrest  had  followed 
as  early  as  a  warrant  could  be  obtained,  lla  sent  at 
once  for  Mi\  Korth,  and  frankly  confessed  to  him 
his  share  in  the  tragedy. 

"  Tt  was  a  moment's  temptation,  sir,"*  he  said,  with 
bitter  sorrow,  "and  I  hev  been  as  miserable  as  any 
devil  out  o'  hell  could  be  iver  since.  T'  night  as 
Clough  were  shot,  I  had  passed  his  house,  and  seen 
jMary  Clough  at  t'  garden  gate,  and  she  hed  been 
varry  scornful,  and  told  me  she'd  marry  Ben  Craven, 
or  stiiy  unmarried ;  and  I  were  feeling  bad  about  it. 
I  thought  I'd  walk  across  t'  moor  and  meet  Clough, 
and  tell  him  wdiat  Mary  said,  and  as  I  went  ahu\g  \ 
heaid  a  shot,  and  saw  a  man  running.  As  he  came 
near  1  knew  it  was  Bingley  i'  Ben  Craven's  working 
clothes.  lie  looked  i'  my  face,  and  said,  '  Clough 
thinks  Ben  Craven  I'ired  t'  shot.  If  ta  helps  me 
away,  thou'lt  get  Mary.  Can  I  go  to  thy  cottage  ? ' 
And  I  said,  *  There's  a  cellar  underneath.'  That  was 
all.     lie  had  stole  Ben's  overworker's  brat  and  cap 


80 


The  Hallam  Succession. 


i 


] 


m 


r  I 


■SI 


from  t'  room  Avliile  Ben  was  drinking  his  tea,  and 
J3en  nivver  missed  it  till  elerry  Oddy  asked  where  it 
was.  At  night  I  let  him  burn  them  i'  my  forge.  I 
hev  wanted  to  tell  t'  truth  often ;  and  I  were  sick  as 
could  he  wV  swearing  away  Ben's  life;  indeed  I 
were ! " 

Before  noon  tlie  village  was  in  an  uproar  of  ex- 
citement. Laycock  followed  Bingley  to  Leeds,  and 
both  were  committed  for  trial  to  York  Castle.  Both 
also  received  the  reward  of  their  evil  deed :  Bingley 
forfeited  his  life,  and  Laycock  went  to  Norfolk 
Island  to  serve  out  a  life  sentence. 

The  day  of  Ben's  release  was  a  great  holiday. 
Troubled  as  the  squire  was,  he  thing  o])cn  the  large 
barn  at  Ilallam,  and  set  a  feast  for  the  whole  village. 
After  it  there  was  a  meeti.ig  at  the  chapel,  and  Ben 
told  how  God  had  strengthened  and  comforted  him, 
and  made  his  prison  cell  a  very  gate  of  heaven.  And 
Martha,  who  had  so  little  to  sa}'  to  any  human  being 
for  weeks,  spoke  wondrously.  Her  heart  was  burn- 
ing with  love  and  gratitude  ;  the  hap])y  tears  streamed 
down  her  face ;  she  stood  with  clasped  hands,  telling 
how  God  had  dealt  with  her,  and  trying  in  vain  to 
express  her  love  and  praise  until  she  broke  into  a 
happy  song,  and  friends  and  neighbors  lifted  it  with 
her,  and  the  rafters  rang  to 

"  Ilallolnjah  to  the  Lamb, 

Wlio  Ikio  purchased  our  pardon! 
"Wc  will  praise  liim  again 

When  we  pass  over  JcuiUi '' 


The  IIallam  Succession. 


81 


tea,  and 
wiiere  it 
ori^o.  I 
i  sick  as 
ndeed  I 

V  of  cx- 

uds,  and 
.     Both 

Koi-folk 

liolidaj'. 
10  large 

village, 
lid  Jjon 
id  ]iim, 
1.  And 
1  being 
s  burn- 
rcaiiied 

tel  ling- 
vain  to 

into  a 
t  witJi 


If  we  talk  of  heaven  on  eartli,  surely  they  talk  of 
earth  in  heaven ;  and  if  the  angels  are  glad  when  a 
sinner  repents,  they  must  also  feel  joy  in  the  j(jy  and 
justification  of  the  righie(>'as.  And  though  Martha 
and  Ben's  friends  and  neighbors  were  rough  and  illit- 
erate, they  sang  the  songs  of  Zion,  and  spoke  the 
language  of  the  redeemed,  and  they  gathered  round 
the  happy  son  and  n; other  with  the  uiiseltish  sympathy 
of  the  sons  and  daughters  of  God.  Truly,  as  the 
rectci-  said,  when  speaking  of  the  meeting,  "  There  is 
something  very  humanizing  in  Methodism."' 

"  And  something  varry  civilizing,  too,  parson," 
answered  the  sipiire ;  "  if  they  hedn't  been  in  t' 
Mechodist  chapel,  singing  and  praising  God,  they  'ud 
hev  been  in  t'  ale-house,  drinking  and  dancing,  and 
varry  like  quarreling.  There's  no  need  to  send  t' 
constable  to  a  Methodist  rejoicing.  I  reckon  Mary 
Clough  '11  hev  to  marry  Ben  Craven  in  t'  long  run, 
now." 

"  J  tliink  so.  Ben  is  to  open  the  mill  again,  and 
to  have  charge  of  it  for  Mary.  It  seems  a  likely 
nuitcli." 

"  Yes.  I'm  varry  glad.  Things  looked  black  for 
Ben  at  one  time." 

"  Only  we  don't  know  wdiat  is  bad  and  wdiat  good." 

"  It's  a  great  pity  we  don't.  It  'ud  be  a  varry  com- 
fortid)le  thing  wdien  affairs  seemed  a'  wrong  if  some 
angel  would  give  us  a  call,  and  tell  us  we  were  a  bit 
mistaken.     There's  no  sense  i'  letting  folks  l>e  nnhan- 


m 


^i! 


82 


The  IIallam  Si    cession. 


py,  wlien  tliey  might  be  tiikiiig  life  wi'  a  bit  o'  com- 
fort." 

"  But,  then,  om*  faith  would  not  be  exercised." 

"  I  don't  mncli  mind  a()ont  that.  I'd  far  rather 
liev  things  settled.     I  don't  like  being  M'orritted  and 

unsettled  i'  my  mind." 

The  sqnire  spoke  with  a  toncliing  irritability,  and 
every  one  looked  sadly  at  him.  The  day  after  Antony's 
frank  statement  of  his  plans,  the  scpiire  rode  early 
into  Bradford  and  went  straight  to  the  house  of  old 
Simon  Whaley.  For  three  generations  the  Whaleys 
had  been  the  legal  advisers  of  the  Ilallams,  and  Simon 
had  touched  the  lives  or  memory  of  all  three.  He 
was  a  very  old  man,  with  a  thin,  cute  face,  and  many 
wriidsles  on  his  brow ;  and  though  he  seldom  left  his 
house,  age  had  not  dimmed  his  intellect,  or  dulled  his 
good-will  toward  the  family  with  whom  he  had  been 
so  frequently  associated. 

"  Why-a !  Hallam !  Come  in,  squire ;  come  in,  and 
welcome.  Sit  thee  down,  old  friend.  I'm  fain  and 
glad  to  see  thee.  What  cheer  'i  And  whativer  brings 
thee  to  Bradford  so  early  ? " 

"  I'm  in  real  trouble,  Whaley." 


a 


jj 


About  some  wedding,  I'll  be  bound. 
''  'No ;  neither  love  nor  women  folk  hev  owt  to  do 

wi'  it.     Antony  IIallam  wants  me  to  break  t'  entail 

and  give  him  £50,000." 

"  Save  us  a' !    Is  t'  lad  gone  by  his  senses  ? " 
Then  the  squire  repeated,  as  nearly  as  possible,  all 


Thk  Ha  I, lam  SrccK.oioN. 


83 


com- 


ratlier 
LI  and 


-M' 


that  Antony  luid  suiil  to  him;  after  wliieh  botli  men 
sat  (juite  still  ;  the  lawyer  thinking,  the  squire  watcli- 
inii;  the  lawyer. 

"  I'll  tell  thee  what,  Ilallam,  thou  lied  better  give 
]nm  what  he  asks.  If  thou  doesn't,  he'll  get  Ilallam 
into  bad  hands.  He  has  thought  o'  them,  or  he  would 
ni vver  hev  spoke  o'  them  ;  and  he'll  go  to  them,  rather 
than  not  hev  his  own  way.  Even  if  he  didn't,  just 
as  soon  as  he  was  squire,  he'd  manage  it.  The  Isov 
folk  llallams,  who  are  next  to  him,  are  a  poor  shiftless 
crowd,  that  he'd  buy  for  a  song.  Now  dost  thou 
want  to  keep  Ilallam  i'  thy  own  flesh  and  blood  ?  If 
ta  does,  I'll  tell  thee  wliat  to  do." 

"  That  is  the  dearest,  strongest  wish  I  hev  ;  and  thou 
knows  it,  Whaley." 

"  Then  go  thy  ways  home  and  toll  Antony  Ilallam 
he  can  hev  £50,000,  if  he  gives  up  to  thee  every 
possible  claim  on  Ilallam,  and  every  possible  assistance 
in  putting  it  free  in  thy  hands  to  sell,  or  to  leave  as 
thou  wishes." 

"He'll do  that  fast  enough." 

"Then  thou  choose  a  proper  husband  for  thy 
danghter  and  settle  it  upon  her.  Her  husband  must 
take  the  name  o'  Ilallam  ;  and  thy  grandchildren  by 
Elizabeth  will  be  as  near  to  thee  as  they  would  be 
by  Antony." 

"  Elizabeth  has  chosen  her  husband.  He  is  a  son 
of  my  aunt,  Martha  Ilallam;  the  daughter  of  Sib- 
bald  Ilal'am." 


84 


The  IIallam  Succession. 


f 


i 


rv^ 


"  What  does  ta  want  better  ?     That's  famous  ! " 

"But  he's  an  American." 

"Then  we  must  mak'  an   Englishman  o'  him. 
Ilallams  must  be  ke])t  up.     What's  his  name  ? " 

"  Fontaine." 

"  It's  a  varry  Frenchified  name.  I  sliould  think 
he'd  be  glad  to  get  rid  o'  it.  Where  is  he  now  ?  At 
Hallam  ^ " 

"  He  is  in  t'  Ilolv  Land  somewhere." 

"  Is  he  a  parson  i " 

"  No,  lie's  a  planter ;  and  a  bit  o'  a  lawyer,  too." 

"  Whativer  does  he  want  m  t'  Holy  Land,  then  ? " 

"  He's  wi'  a  Bishop." 

"  Ay  ?     Then  he's  pious  ?  " 

"For  sure;  he's  a  Methodist." 

"  That's  not  bad.  Squire  Gregory  was  a  Method- 
ist. He  saved  more  'an  a  bit  o'  money,  and  he  bought 
all  o'  t'  low  meadows,  and  built  main  part  o'  t'  stables, 
and  laid  out  best  half  o'  t'  gardens.  There  nivver 
was  a  better  or  thriftier  holder  o'  Hallam.  Ay,  ay, 
there's  a  kind  o'  fellowship  between  Methodism  and 
money.  This  Mr.  Fontaine  will  do  uncommon  well 
for  Hallam,  squire,  I  should  think." 

"If  I  got  Antony  to  come  to  thee,  Whaley,  could 
ta  do  owt  wi'  him,  thinks  ta?" 

"  I  wouldn't  try  it,  squire.  It  would  be  breath  thrown 
away.  Soon  or  later  thy  son  Antony  will  take  his 
own  M'ay,  no  matter  where  it  leads  him.  Tliou  lies 
t'  reins   i'  thy  hand  now,  tak'  my  advice,  and  settle 


_1S. 


The  ILnllam  Succkssion. 


85 


T' 


tliis  tliiiii;'  while  thou  lies.  It's  ii  tk-t-p  wound,  but 
it's  a  fleaii  \V(»und  yet;  cut  oil  t'  limh  afore  it  begins 
to  foster  iiikI  poison  t'  whole  hodv.  And  don't  thee 
quarrel  wi'  him.  lie's  a  man  now,  and  there  lies 
to  be  a'  niak's  o'  men  to  do  t'  world's  work.  Let 
Antony  be  ;  he'll  mebbe  be  a  credit  to  thee  yet." 

'"I  don't  believe,  AVhaley,  tliou  understands  what  a 
sorrow  this  is  to  me." 

'•Don't  1^  I've  got  a  heart  yet,  Ilallam,  though 
thou'd  happen  think  I've  varry  little  use  for  it  at 
eighty-nine  years  old  ;  but  I'll  tell  thee  what,  instead 
o'  looking  at  t'  troubles  thou  lies,  just  tak'  a  look  at 
them  thou  hesn't.  I  nivver  gave  tliee  a  bit  o'  advice 
better  worth  seven-and-sixpence  than  that  is." 

"  What  does  ta  mean  ? " 

"I'll  tell  thee.  Thou's  fi'etting  because  Antony 
wants  to  go  into  business,  and  to  get  hold  o'  as  niueli 
gold  and  honor  as  iver  he  can  put  his  hands  on.  Now 
suppose  he  wanted  to  spend  a' t'  money  he  could  get 
hold  of,  and  to  drag  thy  old  name  through  t'  mire  o' 
jockey  fields  and  gambling  houses,  and  t'  filth  that 
lies  at  t'  mouth  o'  hell.     "Wouldn't  that  be  worse  ? '' 

"  Ay,  it  would." 

"  And  they  M'ho  haidvcr  after  an  earldom  '11  be 
varry  like  to  pick  up  some  good  things  on  t'  road  +o 
it.  When  ta  can't  mak' t' wind  suit  thee,  turn  round 
and  sail  wi'  t'  wind." 

"Thou  sees,  "Whalev,  I  hcv  saved  a  irood  bit  o' 
money,  and  I  gave  Antony  t'  bust  education  Oxford 


m 


m 


I 


B^': 


i 


SQ 


TiiH  Il.vLr.AM  8i;cci:ssiuN. 


could  luiiid  ovLT  for  it;  and  1  rt'ckuiiud  on  liini  i^ct- 
tin^  into  Parliament,  and  makkin'  a  bit  o'  a  stir  tliero, 
and  buildini^  up  t'  old  naiuo  wV  a  deal  o'  honor." 

"  Yarrv  good  ;  hut  strike  f  nail  that  ''U go!  What 
is  t'  use  o'  hitting  them  that  will  only  bend  and  break 
i'  thy  hand,  and  get  niebbe  t'  weight  o'  t'  blow  on 
thy  own  llnger-ends.  Go  thee  home  and  talk  reasona- 
bly to  thy  son.  He's  gotten  a  will  o'  his  own — that's 
a  way  wi'  t'  llallams — and  he'll  tak'  it  Mak'  up  thy 
mind  to  that." 

"Hut  children  ought  to  obey  their  fathers." 

"  Ought  hesn't  been  t'  fashion  since  ivej"  I  remem- 
ber ;  and  t'  young  ])eople  o'  these  days  hev  crossed 
out  Fifth  Connnandment — happen  that's  t'  reason 
there  is  so  few  men  blessed  wi'  the  green  old  age 
that  I  asked  for  wi'  the  keeping  o'  it." 

The  squire  pondered  this  advice  all  day,  keep- 
ing apart  from  his  family,  and  really  suffering  very 
keenly.  Ihit  toward  evening  he  sent  for  his  son. 
As  Antony  entered  his  room  he  looked  at  him  Mith  a 
more  conscious  and  critical  regard  than  he  had  ever 
done  before.  Tie  was  forced  to  admit  that  he  was 
different  from  his  ancestors,  though  inheriting  their 
physical  peculiarities.  They  were  mostly  splendid 
animals,  with  faces  radiant  with  courajxe  and  hiirh 
spirits  and  high  health.  Antony's  face  was  clearer 
and  more  relined,  more  complex,  more  suggestive. 
His  form,  equally  tall,  was  slighter,  not  hampered 
with  superfluous  flesh,  not  so  aggressively  erect.    One 


I 


TlIK    II  AT  J,  AM    SlHX'ESSION. 


87 


felt  that  tliu  older  Ilullanis  would  have  walked 
sti'iu<?ht  up  to  the  ohjict  o*:'  their  anihition  and  de- 
iiiaiided  it,  or,  if  necessary,  fuii<^ht  for  it.  One  was 
equally  sure  that  Antony  had  the  ahility  to  stoop,  to 
how,  to  slide  [)ast  obstacles,  to  attain  his  (»l)jeet  by  the 
l)leasantest  road  possible. 

He  met  his  father  with  marked  respect  and  a  con- 
ciliating manner;  standing,  with  one  hand  leaning 
on  the  central  table,  until  told  to  sit  down. 

"  Thou  can  hev  what  ta  wants  on  thy  own  terms, 
son  Antony." 

"  Thank  you,  sir." 

"  Nay,  I  want  no  thanks.  T  hev  only  made  t'  best 
o'  a  bad  job." 

"  I  hope  you  may  live  to  see  that  it  is  not  a  bad  job, 
sir.  I  intend  no  dishonor  to  our  name.  I  am  as 
proud  of  it  as  you  arc.  I  only  desire  to  make  it  a 
power  and  an  inliuenee,  and  to  give  it  the  honor  it 
deserves." 

"  Ay,  ay ;  thou's  going  to  light  thy  torch  at  t'  sun, 
no  doubt.  I  hev  heard  young  men  talk  afore  thee. 
There  is  Squire  Cawthoi'pe — he  was  at  college  wi' 
me — what  a  grand  ])0(Mn  he  was  going  to  write!  Tie's 
master  o'  Bagley  fox  hounds  now,  and  he  ni  vver  wrote 
a  line  as  I  heard  tell  c\  There's  Parson  Leveret! 
lie  was  going  to  hand  in  t'  millennium,  and  nov,-  he 
cares  for  nowt  i'  t'  world  but  his  tithes  and  a  bottle 
o'  good  port.  Ilowiver,  tiiere's  no  nse  talking. 
Whaley  will  manage  t'  business    and  when  thou  art 


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33  WEST  MAIN  STREET 

WEBSTER,  N.Y.  14580 

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^8  TiiK  IIallam  Succession. 

needed  he'll  go  up  to  London  to  see  thee.  As  long 
as  thou  art  young  Squire  Ilallam  I  shall  continue  thy 
allowance ;  when  thou  hest  signed  away  thy  birth- 
right thou  wilt  liev  £50,000,  and  niver  another  penny- 
piece  from  Ilallam." 

"  That  is  just  and  right." 

"And  sooner  thou  leaves  Ilallam,  and  better  it  will 
be  for  both  o'  us,  I'm  sure.  It  hurts  me  to  my  heart 
to  see  thee ;  that  it  does," — and  he  got  up  suddenly, 
and  walked  to  the  window  to  hide  the  tears  that 
forced  themselves  into  his  eyes. 

"  Shake  hands  with  me,  father." 

"  Nay,  I'd  rather  not." 

He  had  his  hands  under  his  coat,  behind  his  back, 
and  he  kept  them  there,  staring  the  while  resolutely 
into  the  garden,  though  his  large  blue  eyes  were  too 
full  to  see  any  thing  clearly.  Antony  watched  him 
a  moment,  and  then  approached  him. 

"  Forget,  sir,  what  I  am  going  to  do.  Before  I 
leave  Ilallam  give  me  your  hand,  father,  as  you 
would  give  it  to  your  son  Antony." 

The  squire  was  not  able  to  resist  this  appeal.  Ho 
sunk  into  In's  chair  and  covered  his  face,  saying 
mournfully :  "  O,  Antony !  Antony !  Thou  lies 
broken  my  hea^t." 

But  when  Antony  knelt  down  by  his  side,  and 
kissed  the  hand  that  lay  so  pathetically  suggestive 
upon  the  broad  knee,  he  made  no  movement  of 
dissent.     In  another  minute  the  door  closed  softly, 


i  I 


'^1' 


Till.;  Uai.lam  8L•ccE^ssI<•^^ 


89 


and  he  was  alone — as  really  a  bereaved  father  as  if 
he  stood  at  aii  open  grave. 

Antony's  adieu  to  Phyllis  was  easily  made,  hut  his 
parting  with  his  sister  hurt  him  in  his  deepest  affec- 
tions. Whatever  of  unselfish  love  he  felt  belonged 
to  Elizabeth,  and  she  returned  to  her  brother  the 
very  strongest  care  and  tenderness  of  her  nature. 
They  had  a  long  conference,  from  which  Antony  came 
away  pale  and  sick  with  emotion,  leaving  his  sister 
sobbing  on  her  couch.  It  is  always  a  painful  thing  to 
witness  grief  from  which  we  are  shut  out,  and  Phyl- 
lis was  unhappy  without  being  able  to  weep  vith  her 
uncle  and  cousins.  But  it  is  one  blessing  of  a  refined 
household  that  sorrow  must  be  put  aside  for  the 
duties  and  courtesies  of  life.  The  dinner  table  was 
set,  and  the  squire  washed  his  face,  and  put  on  his 
evening  suit,  his  long  white  vest  and  lace  kerchief, 
and,  without  being  conscious  of  it,  was  relieved  by  the 
cliano;e.  And  Elizabeth  had  to  rouse  lierself  and 
take  thought  for  her  household  duties,  and  dress  even 
more  carefully  than  usual,  in  order  to  make  her  white 
cheeks  and  sorrowful  eyes  less  noticeable.  And  the 
courtesies  of  eatinc:  to2:ether  made  a  current  in  the 
tide  of  unhappy  thought ;  so  that  before  the  meal  was 
over  there  had  been  some  smiles ;  and  hope,  the  ap- 
prehender  of  joy,  the  sister  of  faith,  had  whispered 
to  both  father  and  sister,  '  Keep  a  good  heart ! 
Things  may  be  better  than  they  appear  to  be.*" 

As  the  squire  rose  from  the  t;il)le,  he  said :  "  Xow, 


■'  ' 


1 1 


''  ■ 


I 


90 


The  JIallam  Sl'cckssion. 


.i    i 


i 


I 


Elizuhetli,  I  liev  something  varry  particular  to  say  to 
thee.  Pliyllis  will  bide  by  herself  an  hour,  and  then 
we'll  liev  no  more  seerets,  and  we'll  try  to  be  as  happy 
as  things  will  let  us  be." 

Elizabeth'was  in  some  measure  prepared  for  what 
her  father  had  to  say ;  but  she  was  placed  in  a  very 
unhappy  position.  She  did  what  was  kindest  and 
wisest  under  the  circumstances,  accepted  without  re- 
monstrance the  part  assigned  hci'.  The  juung  are 
usually  romantic,  and  their  first  impulses  are  gener- 
ously impracticable  ones.  Elizabeth  was  not  wiser 
than  her  years  by  nature,  but  she  was  wiser  by  her 
will.  For  the  first  few  minutes  it  had  seemed  to  her 
the  most  honorable  and  womanly  thing  to  refuse  to 
stand  in  her  brother's  place.  But  her  good  heart  and 
good  sense  soon  told  her  that  it  would  be  the  kindest 
course  to  submit.  Yet  she  was  quite  aware  ihat  her 
succession  would  be  regarded  by  the  tenants  and 
neighbors  with  extreme  dislike.  They  would  look 
upon  Richard  and  herself  as  supplanters;  Richard's 
foreign  birth  would  be  a  constant  oifense ;  her  clear 
mind  took  in  all  the  consequences,  and  she  fel*'.  hurt 
at  Antony  for  forcing  them  upon  her. 

She  sat  pale  and  silent,  listening  to  all  the  squire 
said,  and  vainly  trying  to  find  some  honorable  and 

kind  way  out  of  the  position. 

"  Thou  must  know  what  thou  art  doing,  Eliza^ 
both,"  he  said,  "  and  must  take  the  charge  wi'  thy 
eyes   open  to  a'  it  asks  of  thee." 


The  IIallam  Succession. 


91 


Then  lie  showed  lier  tlie  books  of  the  estate,  made 
her  understand  the  value  of  every  iield  and  meadow, 
of  every  house  and  farm  and  young  plantation  of 
wood.  "  It's  a  grand  property,  and  Antony  was  a 
born  fool  to  part  wi'  such  a  bird  in  t'  hand  for  any 
number  o'  liner  ones  in  t'  bush.  Does  ta  understand 
its  value  ? " 

"  I  am  sure  I  do." 

"  And  thou  is  proud  o'  being  the  daughter  o'  such 
land  ? " 

"  I  love  every  rood  of  it." 

"  Then  listen  to  me.  Thy  mother  gave  thee  £5,000. 
It  was  put  out  at  interest  on  thy  first  birthday,  and  I 
hev  added  a  £100  now  and  then,  as  I  could  see  my 
way  clear  to  do  so.  Tliou  lies  now  £22,000  o'  thy 
own — a  varry  tidy  fortune.  If  ta  takes  IIallam  thou 
must  pay  down  a'  of  this  to  Antony.  I'll  hev  to  find 
t'  other  £28,000  by  a  mortgage.  Then  I  shall  sell  all 
t'  young  timber  that's  wise  to  sell,  and  some  o'  Hallam 
marsh,  to  pay  off  t'  mortgage.  That  will  take  time 
to  do  wisely,  and  it  will  be  work  enough  for  me 
for  t'  balance  o'  my  life.  But  I'll  leave  thee  Hal- 
lam clear  if  God  spare  me  five  years  longer,  and 
then  there  '11  be  few  women  i'  England  thou  need 
envy." 

''  Whatever  I  have  is  yours,  father.  Do  as  you 
think  best.  I  will  try  to  learn  all  about  the  estate, 
and  I  promise  you  most  faithfully  to  hold  it  in  a  good 
stewardship  for  those  who  shall  come  after  me." 


I 


92 


The  IIallam  Succession. 


■) 


M 


"  Give  me  a  kiss,  my  lass,  on  that  promise.  I  don't 
pay  as  a  lass  can  iver  be  to  Hallam  what  Antony 
should  hev  been  ;  but  thou  'rt  bound  to  do  thy 
best." 

"  And,  father,  Antony  is  very  clever.  Who  can 
tell  what  he  may  do  ?  If  a  man  wants  to  go  up.  the 
door  is  open  to  wit  and  skill  and  industry.  Antony 
has  all  these." 

"  Fair  words  !  Fair  words,  Elizabeth  !  But  we 
wont  sell  t'  vheat  till  we  have  reaped  t'  field;  and 
Antony's  wheat  isn't  sown  yet.  lie's  gotten  more 
projects  in  his  mind  than  there's  places  on  t'  map. 
I  don't  like  such  ways  !  " 

"  If  Antony  is  any  thing,  father,  he  is  clear-sighted 
for  his  own  interest.  lie  knows  the  road  he  is  going 
to  take,  you  may  be  very  sure." 

"  Nay,  then,  I'm  not  sure.  I'll  always  suspect  that 
a  dark  road  is  a  bad  road  until  I'm  safe  off  it." 

"  We  may  as  well  hope  for  the  best.  Antony  ap- 
peared to  understand  what  he  was  doing." 

"Antony  has  got  t'  gold  sickness  varry  bad,  and 
they'd  be  fools  indeed  who'd  consult  a  man  wi' 
a  fever  on  his  own  case.  But  we're  nobbut  talking 
for  talking's  sake.  Let  us  go  to  Phyllis.  She'll  hev 
been  more  'an  a  bit  lonely,  I'm  feared." 

A  servant  with  candles  opened  the  parlor  door  for 
them.  The  rector  was  sitting  in  the  fire-light,  and 
Phyllis  softly  playing  and  singing  at  the  piano.  She 
looked  up  with  a  smiJe  in  her  eyes,  and  finished  her 


\ 


The  Hallam  Succkssion. 


03 


hymn.     The  four  lines    seemed  like   a  voice    from 
heaven  to  the  anxious  father  and  sister : 

"  Judge  not  the  Lord  by  feeble  sense, 

But  tr\i3t  him  for  liis  grace  ; 
Behind  a  frowning  providence 

lie  liides  a  smiling  face." 

"  Sing  them  words  again,  Phyllis,  dearie,"  said  the 
squire,  and  as  she  did  so  he  let  them  sink  into  his 
heart  and  fill  all  its  restless  chambers  with  conlidenee 
and  peace. 


94 


The  IIallam  (Succession. 


!'' 


li 


CHAPTER  IV. 

"Stir  the  deep  wells  of  life  tliat  flow  within  you, 

Toiiclied  by  God's  f^cnial  hand  ; 
And  let  the  cliastenod  sure  ambiiion  win  you 

To  servo  liis  high  comtnand. 

"  And  mighty  love  embracing  nl"  things  human 

In  one  all-fathering  name, 
Stamping  God'a  seal  on  trivial  things  and  common, 

With  consecrated  aim." 

AS  the  weeks  went  on  the  squire's  confidence  in- 
sensibly grew,  lie  met  Lord  Eltham  one  day 
when  he  was  out  riding,  and  they  did  not  quarrel. 
Ok  the  contrary,  Eltham  was  so  conciliating,  so  pa- 
tient, and  so  confidently  hopeful,  that  it  was  almost 
impossible  for  IIallam  not  to  be  in  some  measure  in- 
fluenced by  him. 

"  I'm  quite  sure  t'  young  fellows  will  succeed,"  he 
said,  "  and  if  there's  more  'an  one  son  i'  a  family  thou 
may  take  my  word  for  it  it's  a  varry  comfortable 
thing  to  hev  more  'an  one  living  for  'em." 

"  And  if  they  spoil  t'  horn  instead  o'  making  t' 
spoon,  what  then,  Eltham  ?  " 

"  They'll  hev  lied  t'  experience,  and  they'll  be  more 
ready  to  settle  down  to  what  is  made  for  'em,  and  to 
be  content  wi'  it." 

"  That's  varry  fine  i'  thy  case,  for  t    experience  '11 


•J 

J  8 


\       I 


The  Hallam  Succession. 


95 


'  i 


cost  thee  nothinp:.  Tlioii  is  giving  tliy  younger  son 
a  chance  out  o'  t'  Digln-'s  and  Ilallam's  money." 

Eltham  only  laughed.  "  Ivery  experiment  comes 
out  o'  somebody's  pocket,  Hallam — it'll  be  my  turn 
next  happen.  Will  ta  come  t'  hunt  dinner  at  Eltham 
on  Thursday  ? " 

"  Nay,  I  wont.  I'll  not  bite  nor  sup  at  thy  table 
again  till  we  see  what  wc  shall  see.  If  I  want  to  say 
what  I  think  about  thee,  I'm  none  going  to  tie  my 
tongue  aforehand." 

*'  We'll  be  fast  friends  yet.  See  if  we  bcan't ! 
Good-bye  to  thee,  Hallam.  Thou'lt  be  going  through 
t'  park,  I  expect  ? " 

"  A}' ;  I'll  like  enough  find  company  there." 

It  was  about  three  o'clock,  gray  and  chill.  There 
had  been  a  good  deal  of  snow,  and,  except  where  it 
was  bruslicd  away  from  the  foot-path,  it  lay  white  and 
unbroken,  the  black  trunks  of  the  trees  among  it 
looking  like  pillars  of  ebony  in  the  ivory-paved  courts 
of  a  temple.  Up  in  the  sky  winter  was  passing  with 
all  his  somber  train,  the  clouds  flying  rapidly  in  great 
grotesque  masses,  and  seeming  to  touch  the  tops  of 
the  trees  like  a  gloomy,  floating  veil. 

Phyllis  and  Elizabeth,  wrapped  in  woolens  and 
furs,  walked  cheerily  on,  Phyllis  leaning  upon  the 
arm  of  Elizabeth.  They  were  very  liapi)y,  and  their 
low  laughter  and  snatches  of  Christmas  carols  made 
a  distinct  sound  in  the  silent  park,  for  the  birds  were 
all  quiet  and  preoccupied,  and  flitted  about  the  haw- 


^r" 


06 


TnF:  IIallam  Succession. 


I 


I  ■ 
11 


ii! 


I 


tlinrns  witli  anxious  little  wavs  that  were  almost  hu- 
man  in  their  rare  and  nu'lancholy.  The  njirls  had 
some  crumbs  of  bread  and  cars  of  wheat  in  a  basket, 
and  they  scattered  them  here  and  there  in  sheltered 
nooks. 

'*  I'm  so  irlad  you  remetrdicred  it,  Phvllis.  I  shall 
never  forgive  myself  for  not  having  thought  of  it 
before." 

"  It  is  only  bare  justice  to  our  winged  si-sters.  God 
made  the  berries  for  their  winter  store,  and  we  have 
taken  them  to  adorn  oi.'r  hojises  and  churches.  Un- 
less we  provide  a  good  substitute  there  is  an  odor  of 
cruel  sacrifice  about  our  festal  decorati(>ns.  And  if 
the  poor  little  robins  and  wrens  die  of  hunger,  do 
you  tidnk  lie,  who  sees  them  fall,  will  hold  us  in- 
nocent ?" 

"  Look  how  with  bright  black  eves  thev  watch  us 
scattering  the  food  !  I  hope  it  will  not  snow  until  all 
of  them  have  had  a  good  supper."' 

Elizabeth  was  unusually  gay.  She  had  had  a  de- 
lightful letter  from  Richard,  and  he  was  to  return  to 
IIallam  about  the  New- Year.  There  had  also  been 
one  from  Antony,  beginning  "  Honored  Sir,"  and 
ending  with  the  "  affectionate  duty  "'  of  Antony  Hal- 
lam  ;  and,  though  the  s(|uire  had  handed  it  over  to 
Elizabeth  without  a  word,  she  understood  well  the 
brighter  light  in  his  face  and  the  cheerful  ring  in  his 
voice. 

They  went  into  Martha's  laughing,  and  found  her 


?! 


Thic  Hallam  Succession. 


07 


^ 


standing  npoti  ji  tal)le  liaii^jjinc;  up  Chrit^tmas  boughs. 
Tlie  little  tea-pot  was  in  a  bower  of  hoWy  leaves,  and 
held  a  po.^y  of  the  scarlet  hawthorn  berries  mixed 
with  the  white,  waxy  ones  »f  the  mistletoe. 

"  You  wont  forget  tiie  bir'is,  Martiui  i  You  have 
been  stealing  from  tiieir  larder,  I  see." 

"  I'm  none  o'  that  sort,  Miss  Phvllis.  Look  oe 
there;"  and  she  pointed  to  the  broad  lintel  of  her 
window,  which  had  been  scattered  over  with  crumbs; 
where,  busily  picking  them  i.  p,  were  two  robin  red- 
breasts, who  chirruj)ed  thankfully,  and  watched 
Martha  with  bright  curious  eyes. 

*'Mary  dough's  coming  to  dinner  tomorrow,  and 
her  and  Ben  are  going  to  t'  chapel  together.  Ben's 
getten  himsen  a  new  suit  o'  broadcloth,  and  my 
word !  they'll  be  a  handsome  couple !  " 

''  You'll  have  a  happy  Christmas,  IVEartha." 

"Nobody  in  a'  England  lies  more  reason  to  keep 
a  joyful  Christmas,  Miss  Hall?m." 

"No  two  Christmases  are  exactly  alike;  are  they, 
Martlia?  Last  year  your  daughter  was  with  you. 
Now  she  is  married  and  gone  far  away.  Last  Christ- 
mns  my  brother  was  at  home.     He  is  not  coming  this 


,. " 


year 

"  I  found  that  out  long  ago.  Miss  Hallam.  First 
we  missed  father,  then  mother ;  then  it  was  a  brother 
or  a  sister,  or  a  child  more  or  less ;  then  my  husband 
went,  and  last  year,  Sarah  Ann." 

"  Will  you  and  Bon  come  to  the  hall  to-night  ? " 


ik 


OS 


THK    IIALLA^i    SlCCE»6I0N. 


' 


I     )  ^ 


"Why — mobhe  we  will." 

"Ben  h;i8  quite  got  over  his  trouble?" 

"  All,  Mary  helped  him  a  deal." 

"Mary  will  get  a  good  husband." 

"She  will  that.  Ben  Craven  is  good  at  home. 
You  may  measure  a  man  by  his  home  conduct,  it's  t' 
right  place  to  draw  t'  line,  you  may  depend  upon  it. 
Tak'  a  bit  o'  Christmas  loaf,  and  go  your  ways  back 
now,  dearies,  for  wcMl  be  heving  a  storm  varry  soon." 

They  went  merrily  out,  and  about  fifty  yards  away 
met  Mr.  North,  lie  also  looked  very  hajjpy,  and  his 
lips  were  moving,  as  if  he  was  silently  singing.  In 
fact,  he  was  very  happy  ;  he  had  been  giving  gi'*ts  to 
the  poor,  and  the  blessing  of  many  "ready  to  perish" 
W5U  upon  him.  lie  thanked  Phyllis  and  Elizabeth 
for  the  Christmas  offerings  sent  to  his  chapel ;  and 
told  them  of  a  special  service  that  was  to  be  held  on 
the  first  Sunday  of  the  new  year.  "  I  should  like 
you  to  be  there,  Miss  Fontaine,"  he  said,  "  for  I  think 
this  peculiar  service  of  Methodism  is  not  held  in 
America." 

Ilis  happiness  had  conquered  his  timidity.  He 
looked  almost  handsome,  as  he  gave  them  at  parting 
"  God's  blessing,"  and  the  wish  for  a  "  Merry  Christ- 


mas. 


?? 


"I  wish  you  would  ask  him  to  dinner,  Elizabeth ? '' 
"  Certainly,  I  will.     I  should  like  to  do  it." 
They  hurried  after  him,  and  overtook  him,  with 
his  hand  upon  a  cottvige  gate. 


Tm;   IIai.i.am  Sl'lvkmsion. 


u< 


i>y 


J5 


"  Will  you  coiiii'  ;iikl  dint'  with  us,  Mr.  Norths  It 
is  II  pil.'i  iii;j;lit  at  thu  hall,  and  many  of  y(»ur  pt'opU; 
will  bo  there.  They  will  like  to  st3e  you,  and  you  will 
luld  to  our  pleasure  als(,».'' 

"  Thank  you,  Mis.s  Ilallani.  It  will  be  very  pleasant 
to  lue.  My  duty  will  be  finished  in  hall"  an  hour, 
then  I  will  follow  you." 

His  face  was  as  happy  and  as  eandid  as  a  child's,  as 
lie  lifted  his  hat,  and  entered  the  eottage  garden. 
Elizabeth  involuntarily  watched  him. 

"  lie  seems  to  tread  ujjon  air.  1  don't  believe  he 
remembers  he  is  still  in  the  body.  He  looks  like  a 
gentleman  to-day." 

"  He  is  always  a  gentleman,  Elizabeth.  I  am  told 
he  has  about  £7U  a  year.  Who  but  a  gentleman  could 
live  upon  that  and  look  as  he  does  i  lien  Craven  has 
double  it,  but  who  would  call  Ben  a  gentleman?" 

"  There  is  a  singular  thing  about  the  appearance  of 
Methodist  preachers,  Phyllis  ;  they  all  look  alike.  If 
you  see  a  dozen  of  them  together,  the  monotony  is 
tiresome.  The  best  of  theui  are  only  larger  sj)eci- 
mens  of  the  sajne  type — are  related  to  the  others  as 
a  crown  piece  is  related  to  a  shilling.  You  know  a 
Methodist  minister  as  soon  as  you  see  him." 

"That  is  just  as  it  ought  to  be.  They  are  the 
Methodist  coin,  and  they  bear  its  image  and  its  super- 
scription. The  disciples  had  evidently  the  same 
kind  of  '  monotony.'  People  who  were  not  Xaza- 
rencs  '  took  knowledge  of  them,  that  they  had  been 


u  > 


100 


The  Hall  am  Succession. 


;    i: 


m' 


witli  Jesus.'  liiit  if  tliis  is  a  fault,  surelj'  the  English 
clergy  have  it  in  a  remarkable  degree.  I  know  an 
Episcopal  clergyman  just  as  soon  and  just  as  far  as  I 
can  see  hiuh" 

"  Their  cloth—" 

"  O,  it  is  not  oidy  their  '  cloth.'  That  long  surtout, 
and  nicely  adjusted  white  tie,  and  general  smoothness 
and  trimness,  is  all  very  distinctive  and  proper;  but  I 
refer  quite  as  much  to  that  peculiar  self-contained- 
ness  of  aspect  and  that  air  of  propriety  aitd  polish 
which  surrounds  them  like  an  atmosphere." 

"Now  we  are  quits,  Phyllis,  and  I  think  we  had 
better  walk  faster.  See  what  large  tiakes  of  snow  are 
beginning  to  fall !  " 

The  squire  had  reached  home  first,  and  was  stand- 
ing at  the  door  to  meet  them,  his  large  rosy  face  all 
smiles.     There  was  a  roaring,  leaping  fire  in  the  hall, 

and  its  trophies  of  chase  and  war  were  wreathed  and 

» 

crowned  with  fir  and  box  and  holly.  Branches  of 
mistletoe  hung  above  the  doors  and  the  hearth-stone ; 
and  all  the  rooms  were  equally  bright.  The  servants 
tripped  about  in  their  best  clothes,  the  men  with  bits 
of  hawthorn  berries  and  box  on  their  breast,  the 
women  wdth  sprigs  of  mistletoe.  There  was  the  hap- 
piest sense  of  good  liumor  and  good-will,  the  far-away 
echo  of  laughter,  the  tinkling  of  glass  and  china  and 
silver,  the  faint  delicious  aroma,  through  opening 
doors,  of  plentiful  good  cheer. 

"  Whativer  kept  you  so  long,  dearies  ?     Run  away 


i 


1  ; 


Thb:  Hallam  Succkssion. 


101 


and  don  yourselves,  rjul  make  yourselvT!^  _iz:ay  and 
fine.  Christmas  comes  but  once  a  year.  And  don't 
keep  dinner  waiting;  mind  that  now!  T'  rec^"or's 
here,  and  if  there's  any  thing*  that  puts  him  about,  it's 
waitiniir  for  his  dinner." 

"  We  asked  Mr.  Kortli,  father ;    he  will  be  here 


soon 


5? 


"I'm  uncommon  glad  you  asked  him.  Go  your 
ways  and  get  your  uest  frocks  on.  I'll  go  to  t'  door 
to  meet  him." 

[n  about  an  hour  the  girls  came  down  together, 
Phyllis  in  a  pale  gray  satin,  with  delicate  edgings  of 
tine  lace.  It  litted  her  small  form  to  perfection,  close 
to  the  throat,  close  to  the  wrists,  and  it  had  about  it 
a  slight  but  charming  touch  of  puritanism.  Tiiere 
was  a  white  japonica  in  lier  hair,  and  a  flame-colored 
one  at  her  throat,  and  these  were  her  only  ornaments. 
Elizabeth  wore  a  plain  robe  of  dark  blue  velvet,  cut, 
as  was  the  fashion  in  those  days,  to  show  the  stately 
throat  and  shoulders.  Splendid  bracelets  were  on  her 
arms,  and  one  row  of  large  white  pearls  encircled  her 
throat.  She  looked  like  a  queen,  and  Phyllis  wished 
Richard  could  luvve  seen  her. 

"  She'll  be  a  varry  proper  mistress  o'  Ilallam-  . 
Croft,"  thought  the  scpiire,  witl.  a  passing  sigh.  But 
his  eyes  dwelt  with  delight  upon  Phyllis.  "Eh!" 
he  said,  "but  thou  art  a  bonny  lass!  T'  flowers  that 
bloom  for  thee  to  wear  are  t'  ha[)piest  flowers  that 
blow,  I'll  warrant  thee." 


II 


11 
1      t 


;  \i 


I  1 


m  ii 


f 


102 


The  Hall  am  Successiox. 


After  dinner  the  squire  and  his  uungliter  went  to 
tlie  servants'  hall  to  drink  "  loving  cup "  at  their 
table,  and  to  give  their  Christmas  gifts.  The  rector, 
in  the  big  chair  he  loved,  sat  smoking  his  long  pipe. 
Mr.  North,  with  a  face  full  of  the  sweetest  serenity 
and  pleasure,  sat  opposite,  his  thin  white  hands  touch- 
ing each  other  at  all  their  finger  tips,  and  his  clear 
eyes  sometimes  resting  on  the  blazing  fire,  and  some- 
times drifting  away  to  the  face  of  Phyllis,  or  to  that 
of  the  rector. 

"  You  have  been  making  people  happy  all  day,  Mr 
North  ? " 

"  Yes ;  it  has  been  a  good  day  to  me.  I  had  twelve 
pounds  to  give  away.  They  made  twelve  homes  very 
liappy.     I  don't  often  have  such  a  pleasure." 

"I  have  noticed,  Mr.  North,"  said  the  rector,  "that 
you  do  very  little  pastoral  visiting." 

"  That  is  not  my  duty." 

"  I  think  it  a  very  important  part  of  my  duty." 

"  You  are  right.     It  is.     You  are  a  pastor." 

"  And  you  ? ", 

"  I  am  a  preacher.  My  duty  is  to  preach  Christ 
and  him  crucified.  To  save  souls.  There  are  others 
whose  work  it  is  to  serve  tables,  and  comfort  and  ad- 
vise in  trouble  and  perplexity." 

"  But  you  must  lose  all  the  personal  and  social  in- 
fl^ience  of  a  pastor." 

"  If  I  had  desired  personal  and  social  influence, 
I  should  hardly  have  chosen  the  office   of   a  Meth- 


I 


The  IIallam  Succession. 


103 


odist  preacher.  '  (^ut  of  breath  pursuing  souls,'  was 
said  of  John  Wesley  and  his  pretorian  band  of 
helpers.  I  follow,  as  best  I  can,  in  their  footsteps. 
But  though  I  have  no  time  for  visiting,  it  is  not  neg- 
lected." 

"  Yes?"  said  the  rector,  inquiringly. 

"Our  class-leaders  do  that.  John  Dawson  and 
Jacob  Harg raves  and  Hannah  Saruni  are  the  class- 
leaders  in  IIallam  and  West  Croft.  You  know 
them  ? " 

"  Yes." 

"  They  are  well  read  in  the  Scriptures.  They  have 
Borrowed  and  suffered.  They  understand  the  people. 
They  have  their  local  prejudices  and  feelings.  They 
liave  been  in  the  same  straits.  They  speak  the  same 
tongue.  It  is  their  duty  to  give  counsel  and  comfort, 
and  material  help  if  it  is  needed ;  to  watch  over 
young  converts ;  to  seek  those  that  are  backsliding ; 
to  use  their  influence  in  every  way  for  such  of  tiie  flock 
as  are  under  their  charge.  John  Dawson  has  twenty- 
two  men  and  Jacob  Ilargraves  nineteen  men  under 
their  care.  Hannah  Sarum  has  a  very  large  class.  No 
one  pastor  could  do  as  regards  meat  and  money  mat- 
ters what  these  three  can  do.  Besides,  the  wealthy, 
the  educated,  and  the  prosperous  ernnot  so  perfectly 
enter  into  the  joys  and  sorrows  of  the  poor.  If  a 
woman  has  a  drunken  husb:ind,  or  a  disobedient 
child,  she  will  more  readily  go  to  Hannah  for  com- 
fort and  advice  than  to  me ;  and  when  James  Baker 


n 


ft! 


« 


f 


;! 


1U4 


TiiK  Hall  AM  Succession. 


was  ont  of  work,  it  was  John  Dav/aoii  who  loaned  him 
five  pounds,  and  who  finally  got  him  a  job  in  Bowl- 
ing's mill.  I  could  have  done  neither  of  those  things 
for  him,  however  willing  I  might  hav^e  been." 

"  I  have  never  understood  the  ofKce,  then.  It  is  a 
wonderful  arrangement  for  mutual  help." 

"  It  gives  to  all  our  societies  a  family  feeling.  We 
are  wdiat  we  call  ourselves — brothers  and  sisters ; "  and, 
with  a  smile,  he  stretched  out  his  hand  to  take  the 
one  which  Phyllis,  by  some  sympathetic  understand- 
ing, offered  him." 

"There  was  something  like  it  in  the  apostolic 
Church  ? " 

"  Yes ;  our  class-leader  is  the  apostolic  diaconate. 
The  apostles  were  preachers,  evangelists,  hasting  here 
and  there  to  save  souls.  The  deacons  were  the  pas- 
tors of  the  infant  churches.  I  preach  seven  times  a 
week.  I  walk  to  all  the  places  I  preach  at.  It  is  of 
more  importance  to  me  that  men  are  going  to  eternal 
destruction,  than  that  they  are  needing  a  dinner  or  a 
coat." 

*'  But  if  you  settled  down  in  one  place  you  would 
soon  become  familiar  with  the  people's  needs ;  you 
would  only  have  to  preach  two  sermons  a  week,  and 
you  could  do  your  own  pastoral  duty." 

"True;  but  then  I  would  not  be  any  longer  a 
Methodist  preacher.  A  Methodist  pastor  is  a  sole- 
cism ;  Methodism  is  a  moving  evangelism.  "When  it  set- 
tles down  for  a  life  pastorate  it  will  need  a  new  name." 


k 
I 

II. 


The  1Jai.lam  Succession. 


105 


t  )' 


•'  However,  Mr.  North,  it  seems  to  me,  that  u 
preacher  should  bring  every  possible  adjunct  to  aid 
him.  The  advantages  of  a  reputation  f<  r  piety,  wis- 
dom, and  social  synjpathy  are  quite  denied  to  a  man 
who  is  only  a  preacher." 

"  He  has  the  c^oss  of  Christ.  It  needs  no  aid  of 
wealth,  or  wisdom,  or  social  sympathy.  It  is  enough 
for  salvation.  The  banner  of  the  Methodist  preacher 
is  that  mighty  angel  flying  over  land  and  sea,  and 
having  the  everlasting  Gospel  to  preach ! " 

His  enthusiasm  had  carried  him  away.  He  sighed, 
and  continued,  "  But  I  judge  no  man.  There  must 
be  pastors  as  well  as  preachers.  I  was  sent  to 
preach." 

For  a  moment  there  was  silence,  then  the  fine  in- 
stinct of  Phyllis  perceived  that  the  conversation  had 
reached  exactly  that  point  when  it  demanded  relief 
in  order  to  effect  its  best  ends.  She  went  to  the 
piano  and  began  to  sing  softly  some  tender  little  ro- 
mance of  home  and  home  joys.  In  the  midst  of  it 
the  squire  and  Elizabeth  entered,  and  the  conversa- 
tion turned  upon  Christmas  observances.  So,  it  fell 
out  naturally  enough  that  Phyllis  should  speak  of  her 
southern  home,  and  describe  the  long  rows  of  white 
cabins  among  the  live  oaks,  and  the  kind-hearted 
dusky  dwellers  in  them ;  and,  finally,  as  she  became 
almost  tearful  over  her  memories,  she  began  to  sing 
one  of  the  "  spirituals,"  then  so  totally  unknown  be- 
yond plantation  life,  singing  it  sotto  voce,  swaying  her 


i'l     '!' 


.,     ' 


11     \ 


106 


My  JIallam  {Succession. 


body  gently  to  the  inulody,  and   softly  dapping  her 
small  hands  as  an  aeconipaninient : 

"  My  soul !     Massa  Jesus !     3Iy  soul  I 

My  sou' ! 
Dar's  a  little  thing  lays  in  my  heart, 
An'  de  more  I  dig  him,  de  better  he  spring  ; 

My  soul  1 
Dar's  a  little  thing  lays  in  iny  heart, 
An'  he  set  my  soul  on  fire  : 

My  soul  I 
Massa  Jesus  !     My  soul  1     My  soul  I  " 

Then  changing  the  time  and  tune,  she  continued  : 

"  ^e  water  deep,  de  water  cold, 

Nobody  here  to  help  me  I 
O  de  water  rise!     De  water  roll! 

Nobody  here  to  help  me !  " 
Dear  Lord, 

Nobody  here  to  help  me !  " 

She  had  to  sing  them  and  many  others  over  and 
over.  Mr.  N^orth's  eyes  were  full  of  tears,  and  the 
rector  hid  his  face  in  his  hands.  As  for  the  squire, 
he  sat  looking  at  her  with  wonder  and  delight. 

"  Why  did  ta  nivver  sing  them  songs  afore,  Phyl- 
lis ?     I  nivver  heard  such  music." 

"  It  never  has  been  written  down,  uncle." 

"  Who  made  it  up  for  'em  ? " 

"It  was  never  made.  It  sprung  from  their  sor- 
rows and  their  captivity.  The  slave's  heart  was  the 
slave's  lyre." 

They  talked  until  a  deputation  came  from  the  serv- 
ant's hall  and  asked  for  Mr.  North.     They  belonged 


The  Hallam  Succession. 


107 


to  tlie  Christmas  waits,  and  if  he  was  going  back  to 
tlie  village  they  wished  to  accomj)any  him  home;  an 
offer  he  readily  accepted. 

"  I  have  had  a  happy  evening,  squire ;  *'  and  his 
smile  included  every  one  in  the  blessing  he  left  be- 
hind. They  all  followed  him  to  the  door,  and 
Matched  the  Httle  crowd  take  their  way  through  the 
white  park.  The  snow  had  quite  ceased,  the  moon 
rode  full  and  clear  in  mid-heaven,  and  near  ^ly  her 
there  was  one  bright,  bold,  steady  star. 

In  a  short  time  Elizabeth  went  with  Phyllis  to  her 
room,  and  they  laid  aside  their  dresses  and  ornaments, 
and,  sitting  down  before  the  fire,  began  to  talk  of 
Kichard  and  Antony,  of  Rome  and  America,  and  of 
those  innocent,  happy  hopes  which  are  the  joy  of 
youth.  How  bright  their  faces  were!  How  pret- 
tily the  tire-light  glinted  in  their  white  robes  and 
loosened  hair!  How  sweetly  their  low  voices  and 
rippling  laughter  broke  the  drowsy  silence  of  the 
large,  handsome  room !  Suddenly  J;he  great  clock 
in  the  tower  struck  twelve.  They  counted  off  tlie 
strokes  on  their  white  fingers,  looking  into  each  other's 
faces  with  a  bright  expectancy ;  and  after  a  moment's 
pause,  out  clashed  the  Christmas  bells,  answering  each 
other  from  hill  to  hill  through  the  moonlit  midnight. 
Phyllis  was  in  an  ecstasy  of  delight.  She  threw  open 
her  window  and  stood  listening,  "O,  I  know  what 
they  say,  Elizabeth.  Glory  be  to  God  on  high  !  And 
hark !     There  is  singing ! " 


I  I 


108 


The  Hallam  Succession. 


I  1 


r 


:i   i 


"  It  is  the  waits,  Phyllis." 

A  company  of  about  fifty  men  and  women  were 
coming  through  the  park,  filling  the  air  as  they  came 
with  music,  till  all  the  hills  and  valleys  re-echoed  the 
"  In  Excelsis  Gloria  "  of  the  sweet  old  carol : 

*'  When  Christ  was  born  of  Mary  free, 
In  Bethlehem  that  fair  citie, 
The  angels  sang  in  holy  glee, 
'  In  excelsis  gloria  1 '  " 

They  finished  the  last  verses  under  the  Hall  win- 
dows, and  then,  after  a  greeting  from  the  rector  and 
the  S(|uire,  they  turned  happily  back  to  the  village, 
singing  llerrick's  most  perfect  star  song : 

"  Tell  us,  thou  clear  and  heavenly  tongue, 
Where  is  the  Babe  that  lately  sprung  ? 
Lies  He  the  lily-banks  among  V  " 

Phyllis  was  weeping  unrestrainedly ;"  Elizabeth, 
more  calm  and  self-contained,  held  her  against  her 
breast,  and  smiled  down  at  the  happy  tears.  Blessed 
are  they  who  have  wept  for  joy !  They  have  known 
a  rapture  far  beyond  the  power  of  laughter  to  express. 

The  next  week  was  full  of  visiting  and  visitors. 
The  squire  kept  open  house.  The  butler  stood  at  the 
sideboard  all  day  long,  and  there  was  besides  one 
large  party  which  included  all  the  families  within 
a  few  miles  of  Hallam  that  had  any  acquaintance 
with  the  squire.  It  was,  perhaps,  a  little  trial  at 
this  time  for  Phyllis  to  explain  to  Elizabeth  that  she 
could  not  dance. 


u 


The  Hallam  Succession. 


109 


"  But  father  is  expecting  to  open  the  ball  with 
yon.     He  will  be  very  mnch  disappointed." 

"  I  am  sorry  to  disappoint  him  ;  but,  indeed,  I  can- 
not." 

"  I  will  teach  you  the  step  and  figure  in  half  au 
hour." 

"  I  do  not  w.^li  to  learn.  I  have  both  conscien- 
tious and  wonnanly  scruples  against  dancing." 

"  I  forsfot.  The  Methodists  do  not  sanction  danc- 
ing,  I  suppose  ;  but  you  nuist  admit,  Phyllis,  that  very 
good  people  are  mentioned  in  the  Bible  as  dancing." 

"  True,  Elizabeth ;  but  the  religious  dances  of 
Judea  were  triumphant  adoration.  You  will  hardly 
claim  so  much  for  the  polka  or  waltz.  All  ancient 
dances  were  symbolical,  and  meant  something.  Every 
motion  was  a  thought,  every  attitude  a  sentiment. 
If  the  dauirhter  of  Herod ias  had  danced  a  modern 
cotillion,  do  you  think  that  John  the  Baptist's  head 
would  have  fallen  at  her  feet  ? " 

"  Don't  associate  modern  dancing  M^ith  such  un- 
pleasant things.  We  do  not  want  it  to  mean  any 
thing  but  pleasure." 

"  But  how  can  you  find  rational  pleasure  in  spinning 
round  like  a  teetotum  in  a  room  of  eighty  degrees 
temperature  ?  " 

"  All  people  do  not  waltz  ;  I  do  not  myself." 

"  The  square  dances,  then  ?  What  are  they  but 
slouching  mathematical  dawdling,  and  'promiscuous ' 
bobbing  around  ? " 


I 


I'     I 


110 


The  IIallam  Succession. 


"But  people  must  do  something  to  pass  the  time."' 

"  I  do  not  see  that,  EHzahcth.  "We  are  tohl  not '  to 
pass  the  time,'  hut  to  'redeem'  it.  I  think  dancing  n 
foolish  thing,  and  folly  and  sin  are  very  close  kin." 

"  You  said  '  unwomanly '  also  'i '' 

"  Yes ;  I  think  dancing  is  unwomanly  in  public.  If 
you  waltz  with  Lord  Francis  Eltham,  you  permit 
liim  to  take  a  liberty  with  you  in  pul)lic  you  would 
not  allow  under  any  other  circumstances.  And  then 
just  look  at  dancers !  IIow  heated,  flushed,  damp, 
and  untidy  they  look  after  the  exercise !  Did  you 
ever  watch  a  lot  of  men  and  women  dancing  when 
you  could  not  hear  the  music,  but  could  only  see 
them  bobl)ing  up  an  down  the  room  ?  I  assure  you 
they  look  just  like  a  party  of  lunatics." 

Elizabeth  laughed  ;  but  Phyllis  kept  her  resolution. 
And  after  the  ball  was  over,  Elizabeth  said,  frankly, 
"  You  had  the  best  of  it,  Phvllis,  every  way.  You 
looked  so  cool  and  sweet  and  calm  in  the  midst  of  the 
confusion  and  heat.  I  declare  every  one  was  glad  to 
sit  down  beside  you.,  and  look  at  you.  And  how 
cheerfully  you  sang  and  played  !  You  did  not  dance, 
but,  nevertheless,  you  were  the  belle  of  the  boll." 

On  the  first  Sabbath  of  the  new  year  Phyllis  M'as 
left  at  the  little  IVFethodist  chapel.  Her  profession 
had  always  been  free  from  that  obtrusive  demonstra- 
tion of  religious  opinion  which  is  seldom  united  with 
true  piety.  While  she  dwelt  under  her  uncle's  roof 
it  had  seemed  generally  the  wisest  and  kindest  thing 


X,. 


V  ;m 


t 


I 


» 

1 


II 


The  TTallam  Si'cckssion. 


HI 


to  worship  with  liis  family.  It  involved  nothiiifj;  that 
hurt  her  conseienee,  and  it  prevented  numy  disputes 
which  would  ])robably  have  begun  in  some  small 
household  disarrangement,  and  bred  only  dislike  and 
reliirious  olTense.  Iler  Methodism  liad  neither  been 
cowardly  nor  demonstrative,  but  had  been  made  most 
conscious  to  all  by  her  sweet  comj)laisanee  and  chari- 
table concession.^. 

So,  when  she  said  to  the  squire,  "  Uncle,  Mr. 
North  tells  me  there  is  to  be  a  very  solemn  Method- 
ist service  to-morrow,  and  one  which  I  never  saw  in 
America ;  I  should  like  you  to  leave  me  at  the  chapel," 
he  answered:  "  To  be  sure,  Phyllis.  We  would  go 
with  thee,  but  there's  none  but  members  admitted.  I 
know  what  service  thou  means  well  enough." 

She  found  in  the  chapel  about  two  hundred  men 
and  women,  for  they  had  come  to  llallam  from  the 
smaller  societies  around.  They  were  mostly  from 
what  is  often  called  "  the  lower  orders,"  men  and 
women  whose  hands  were  hard  with  toil,  and  whose 
forms  were  bowed  with  labor.  But  what  a  still  so- 
lenmity  there  was  in  the  place  !  No  organ,  no  dim 
religious  light,  no  vergers,  or  beadles,  or  robed  choris- 
ters, or  priest  in  sacred  vestments.  The  winter 
light  fell  pale  and  cold  througli  the  plain  windows 
on  bare  white-washed  walls,  on  a  raised  wooden 
pulpit,  and  on  pews  unpainted  and  uncushioned. 
Some  of  the  congregation  were  very  old ;  some,  just 
in  the  flush  of  manhood  and  womanhood.     All  were 


112 


TiiK  IIam-am  SrccKssiox. 


\: 


I;    I 


ll 


I 


I'M 


m 

8'')'' 


*f| 


i   it- 
it 


ill  tlio  InimcdJaU  preseiipc  of  (Todjimd  were  intensely 
cuiisciona  of  it. 

There  wjis  Ji  Kolenin  liynin  simp;  and  a  sliort  prayer  ; 
then  AFr.  Kor'li's  mize  waiulered  over  the  eonij-reira- 
tion  nntil  it  rested  npon  a  man  in  the  center — a  very 
old  man — witli  liair  as  white  as  wool. 

"Stephen  Lanp;sidc,  can  you  stand  np  before  (lod 
and  man  to-day?" 

The  old  man  rose,  and,  supported  by  two  young 
farmers,  lifted  up  a  face  full  of  lii:;ht  and  eoniidence. 

"  They  tell  me  that  you  are  ninety-ei^^ht  years  (»ld, 
and  that  this  is  the  seventy-tirst  time  that  you  will 
renew  your  covenant  with  the  eternal  Father.  Bear 
witness  this  day  of  him."' 

"His  word  is  sure  as  t'  everlasting  hills!  I  liev 
been  young,  and  now  I'm  old,  and  I  hev  hed  a  deal 
to  do  wi'  him,  and  he  lies  lied  a  deal  to  do  for  me; 
and  he  nivver  lies  deceived  me,  and  he  lies  iiivver 
failed  me,  and  he  has  nivver  turned  t'  cold  shoulder 
to  me;  ay,  and  he  lies  stuck  up  to  his  promises,  when 
I  was  none  ready  to  keep  mine.  There's  many  good 
masters,  but  he  is  t'  best  Master  of  a' !  There's  many 
true  friends,  but  he  is  the  truest  of  a' !  IVEany  a  kind 
father,  but  no  father  so  kind  as  him  !  I  Jtiioio  M'hoin 
I  hev  believed,  and  I  can  trust  him  even  unto  death  !  " 

"  Brothers  and  sisters,  this  is  the  Master,  the  Friend, 
the  Father,  whom  I  ask  you  to  enter  into  covenant 
with  to-day — a  holy  solemn  covenant,  which  you 
shall    kneel  down  and  make  upon  your  knees,  and 


II 


I 


The  IIallam  Slx'cession. 


113 


itoiisoly 

pray  CM* ; 
mi'Tc'irii- 
— ii  very 

)re  God 

)  young 
ifideiice. 
L'jirs  old, 
^'ou  will 
•.     Bear 

I     I  hev 

d  a  deal 

for  1110 ; 

iiivver 

lioidder 

s,  when 

IV  c:ood 

s  many 

a  kind 

whom 

eath ! " 

riend, 

)venant 

h    you 

es,  and 


/ 


stand  up  and  ratify  in  the  sight  of  angels  and  of 
men." 

Not  ignorantly  did  Phyllis  enter  intotliis  covenant 
with  her  Maker.  She  had  read  it  carefully  over,  and 
considered  well  its  awful  solemnity.  Slowly  the  grand 
abnegation,  the  solemn  engagement,  was  formed ; 
every  sentence  recited  without  haste,  and  with  full 
consciousness  of  all  its  obligations.  Then  Mr.  North, 
after  a  short  pause  for  mental  examination,  said  : 

*'  Remember  now  that  you  arc  in  the  actual  j)rc8- 
ence  of  the  Almighty  God.  He  is  nearer  to  you 
than  breathing,  closer  than  hands  and  feet.  He  be- 
sets you  before  and  behind.  He  lays  his  hand  upon 
you.  Therefore  let  all  who,  by  Fta'iding  up,  give 
their  soul's  assent  to  this  consecration,  rumember  well 
to  whom  they  promise." 

Slowly,  one  by  one,  the  congregation  arose  ;  and  so 
they  remained  standing,  until  every  face  was  lifted. 
Then  the  silence  was  broken  by  the  joyful  singing  of 
Doddridge's  tine  hymn, 

"  0  happy  day  lliat  fixed  my  choice," 

and  the  service  closed  with  the  administration  of  the 
Holy  Communion. 

"  Thou  looks  very  happy,  Phyllis,"  said  the  squire 
to  her,  as  they  both  sat  l)y  the  fire  that  night. 

"  I  am  very  haj)py,  uncle." 

"Thou  beats  me!  I  told  t'  rector  where  ta  had 
gone  to-day,  and  he  said  it  were  a  varry   singular 


( 

i 


I 


•  ? 


lit 


|.: 

I'l 

ii'i 

114 


The  IIallam  Succession. 


thing  that  thou  sliouhl  take  such  an  obligation  on 
thee.  He  said  t'  terms  of  it  would  do  for  t'  variy 
strictest  o'  Koman  Catliolic  orders." 

"  Do  you  not  think,  uncle,  that  Protestants  should 
be  as  strict  regarding  personal  iioHness  as  Catholics  ? '' 

"Nay,  I  know  nowt  about  it,  dearie.  I  wish 
women  were  a'  like  thee,  though.  They'd  be  a  deal 
better  to  live  wi'.  I  like  religion  in  a  woman,  it's  a 
vairy  reliable  thing.  I  wish  Antony  lied  lied  his 
senses  about  him,  and  got  thee  to  wed  him.  Eh! 
but  I  would  have  been  a  happy  father  ! " 

"  Uncle,  dear — you  sec — I  love  somebody  else." 

"  Well  I  nivver!  Thee!  Why  thou  's  too  young! 
When  did  ta  begin  to  think  o'  loving  any  body  T' 

"  When  I  was  a  little  girl  John  Millard  and  I  loved 
each  other.  I  don't  know  when  I  began  to  love  him, 
I  always  loved  him." 

"  What  is  ta  talking  about  ?     Such  nonsense  !  " 

"  Love  is  not  nonsense,  uncle.  You  remember  the 
old  English  «ong  you  like  so  much  : 

"  '  0  'tis  love,  'tis  love,  'tis  love 
That  makes  the  world  go  round !  ' " 

"Now  be  quiet  wi'  thee.  It's  nowt  o'  t'  sort. 
Songs  and  real  life  are  varry  different  things.  If  ta 
comes  to  real  life,  it's  money,  and  not  love ;  t*  A'orld 
would  varry  soon  stick  without  a  bit  o'  money." 

About  the  middle  of  Januarv  Richard  returned  to 
IlalLnn.     The  l>i>liop  was  with  friends  in  Liverpool, 


The  IIallam  Succkssion. 


115 


the 


sort. 

Ifta 

1  >vorld 

led  to 
Irpool, 


bnt  he  wished  to  sail  immediately,  and  Richard 
thou  Hit  it  best  to  sail  with  him.  Phyllis  was  williiis:  to 
go.  She  had  had  a  charming  visit,  but  she  had  many 
duties  and  friends  on  the  other  side,  and  her  heart, 
also,  was  there.  As  for  danger  or  disco?nfort  in  a 
winter  passage,  she  did  not  think  it  worth  considera- 
tion. Some  discomfort  there  must  be  ;  and  if  storm, 
or  even  death  came,  she  was  as  near  to  heaven  hy  sea 
as  by  land. 

The  squire  had  not  written  to  Richard  about  his 
plans  for  the  succession  of  Hallam.  He  had  felt 
more  uncertainty  on  the  subject  tlian  he  would  admi- 
even  to  his  own  heart.  lie  thought  he  would  prefer 
to  ex^^lain  matters  to  him  in  person.  So,  one  morn- 
ing, as  they  were  together,  he  said  '•  Look  'ee  here, 
Richard  ! "  and  he  led  him  to  the  portrait  of  Colonel 
Alfred  Hallam.  "  Thou  can  see  where  ta  comes 
from.     Thou  is  t'  varry  marrow  o'  that  Hallam  !  " 

Richard  was  much  pleased  at  the  incident,  and 
he  traced  with  pleasure  the  resemblances  between 
them. 

"  Richard,  I  am  going  to  leave  Hallam  to  thee." 

It  was  not  in  the  squire's  nature  to  "introduce"  a 
subject.  He  could  never  half  say  a  thing.  His  bald 
statement  made  Richard  look  curiously  at  him.  He 
never  for  a  moment  believed  him  to  mean  what  the 
words  implied.     So  he  only  smiled  and  ])o\ved. 

"Xay,  thou  needirt  laugli !  It's  no  laughing 
matter.     I'll  tell  thee  all  about  it." 


i! 


'1 


II 


;i 


: 


1  * 


1,1 


116 


The  IIallam  Succession. 


In  the  squire's  way  of  telling,  the  tnle  was  a  very 
short  one.  The  facts  were  stated  in  a  few  sentences, 
without  comment.  They  amazed  Richard,  and  left 
him  for  a  moment  speechless. 

"  Well,  what  does  ta  say  ? " 

"  I  will  be  as  frank  a?  you  have  been,  uncle.  I 
cannot  possibly  accept  your  offer." 

"  Thou'lt  hev  a  reason  ? " 

"  More  than  one.  First,  I  would  not  change  my 
name.  I  should  feel  as  if  I  had  slandered  the  Fon- 
taines. My  father  was  a  brave  soldier;  my  grand- 
father was  a  missionary,  whose  praise  is  in  all  our 
churches.  I  need  go  no  farther  back.  If  I  had  been 
born  '  Hallani '  I  would  have  stood  by  the  name  just 
as  Urmly." 

"Then,  thou  wilt  hev  to  give  up  Elizabeth.  Suc- 
cession nmst  go  in  her  children  and  in  her  name." 

"Miss  IIallam  and  you  accepted  me  as  Ilichard 
Fontaine.  Have  I  not  the  right  to  ex])eet  that  both 
she  and  you  will  keep  your  word  with  me  ? " 

"  Thou  forgets,  Ilichard.  Her  duty  to  her  father 
and  to  her  ancestors  stands  before  thee.  If  thy  duty 
to  thine  will  not  let  thee  give  up  thy  name,  hers 
may  well  be  due  to  home  and  lands  that  hold  her 
])V  a  tenure  o'  a  thousand  years.  Ihit  neitlier  IMiss 
lialhim  nor  IIallam  Ilall  need  go  a-liegging,  lad.  I 
ask  tliy  ])ardon  for  offering  thee  owt  so  worthless." 

"  Dear  uncle,  do  not  be  angry  with  me." 

"  Ay,  ay  ;  it's  '  dear  uncle,'  and  '  dear  father,'  but 


I 


The  IIallam  Succession. 


Ill 


ler 

liC'V 


it's  also,  '  I'll  tak'  my  own  way',  wi'  both  Antony  and 
thee.     I'm  a  varry  unhappy  old  man.     I  am  that !  " 

lie  walked  angrily  oii",  leaving  Richard  standing 
before  the  picture  which  so  much  resembled  him. 
He  turned  quickly,  and  went  in  search  of  Elizabeth. 
She  was  sitting  with  Phyllis  in  the  breakfast  parlor. 
Phyllis,  who  was  often  inclined  to  a  dreamy  thought- 
fulness,  was  so  inclined  at  that  hour,  and  she  was 
answering  Elizabeth's  remarks,  far  more  curious  of 
some  n^ental  vision  than  of  the  calm-browed  woman, 
sitting  opposite  to  her,  sewing  so  industriously. 
Richard  came  in  like  a  small  tempest,  and  for  once 
Elizabeth's  quiet,  inquiring  regard  seemed  to  irritate 
hiu), 

"Elizabeth;"  and  he  took  her  work  from  her 
hand,  and  laid  it  on  the  table.  "  My  dear  love ! 
does  Phyllis  know  ? " 

"AYluit,  Richard?" 

"  About  Antony  and  the  Hallam  estate  ? " 

"No;  I  thought  it  best  to  let  you  tell  her." 

"PecauHc  you  were  sure  1  would  refuse  it? — 
Phyllis ! " 

"  Yes,  Richard." 

"Your  uncle  is  going  to  disinherit  Antony;  and 
ho    wishes    me    to   become    his    heir   and   take   his 


name. 


5) 


)Ut 


"But  that  is  impossil)le.  You  could  not  take 
Antony's  place.  You  could  not  give  up  your  name 
— not  for  a  kingdom." 


I     'Ni ' 


*l 


* 


fkmt 


ir 


1 1 


t:Pf '■ 


IN; 


I; 


118 


The  ILvLLAM  Succession. 


''  Then,"  said  Elizabeth,  ii  little  proudly,  "he  must 
give  me  up.     I  eiiuuot  disobey  my  father." 

Phyllis  quietly  rose  aud  weut  out.  She  could 
uot  interfere  with  the  lovers,  but  she  felt  sorry 
enough  for  them.  Richard's  compliance  was  for- 
bidden by  every  sentiment  of  honor.  Elizabeth  was 
little  likely  to  give  way.  Richard  held  her  to  her 
promise,  and  pleaded  for  its  fullillment.  He  wanted 
no  fortune,  lie  was  quite  content  that  her  fortune 
should  2:0  to  free  Haliam.  But  he  did  not  see  that 
her  life  and  happiness,  and  his,  also,  should  be  sacri- 
ficed to  Antony's  insane  ambition.  "  Jle  will  marry, 
doubtless,"  he  urged,  '"  He  nuiy  have  a  large  family  ; 
cannot  one  of  them,  in  such  case,  be  selected  as  heir  ?" 

This  was  the  only  hope  Elizabeth  would  admit. 
In  her  way  she  was  as  immovable  as  Richard.  She 
had  made  up  her  mind  as  to  what  was  her  duty  in 
the  premises,  and  her  lover  could  not  move  her  from 
this  position.  And,  as  the  unhappy  can  seldom  per- 
suade tliemselves  that  "  sutTicient  unto  the  day  is  the 
evil  thereof,"  each  heart  was  heavy  with  the  prob- 
ai^le  sorrovrs  that  were  to  flow  from  this  complication 
of  affairs. 

Phyllis,  musing  thoughtfully  at  her  own  room  win- 
dow, saw  the  squire  walking  on  the  terrace.  Her 
first  impulse  was  to  go  to  him,  but  she  sat  down  to 
consider  the  inclination.  Her  class-leader,  a  shrewd, 
pious  old  Scotchman,  had  once  said  to  her — "Nine 
impulses  oot  o'  ten,  Sister  Phyllis,  come  fra  the  de'il 


f 


J 


till 

■  5! 


r 


'm 


iif 


The  Hall  am  Succkssion.  119 

Just  put  an  impulse  through  its  catecliisiri  before  je 
go  the  gate  it  sends  ye."  So  she  sat  down  to  thin'k 
-  Wliat  riglit  iiave  I  to  interfere  ?  Ought  I  to  solicit 
a  confidence  ?  Can  I  do  good  ?  Might  I  not  do 
harm?  A  good  word  spoken  out  of  season  is  often 
a  bad  word  ;  and  I  am  not  sure  what  is  the  good  word 
m  this  case.     I  had  better  be  still  and  wait." 

Her  patience  had  in  some  measure  its  reward 
Toward  afternoon  Elizabetii  came  to  lier  room  Her 
eyes  were  red  with  weeping,  but  she  said,  "Father 
and  Richard  have  shaken  hands,  Phyllis ;  there  is  to 
be  no  ill-will  about  the  disappointment." 

"I  aui  very  glad.-  But  is  it  to  be  a  disappoint- 
ment—to you,  I  mean,  Elizabeth  ?" 

"1  fear  so;  I  must  stand  by  father's  side  as  re- 
gards Hallam.  I  can  wait  and  love  on.  But  I  will 
not  bind  Richard.     He  is  free." 

"I  am  quite  sure  he  is  not  free.  Richard  will 
never  be  free  while  there  remains  a  hope  of  eventu- 
ally winning  you." 

"He  says  that  nothing  but  my  marriage  to  some 
other  person  shall  make  him  lose  hope ;  but  men  say 
these  things  and  forget." 

"  Richard  means  what  he  says.  He  will  not  for- 
.^^-t ;  and  tune  gives  with  botli  hands  to  tlie  patient 
and  the  truthful.     Is  the  squire  satisfied  ?  " 

''  I  don't  think  he  blames  Richard.  The  shadow 
1  felt  on  the  night  of  our  betrothal  has  be<run  to 
creep  toward    me,  Phyllis.     I  am   in    its  chiil    and 


i  ; 


r  t 


120 


TiiK  IIallam  Succession. 


H'- 


gloum.  It  will  darken  all  our  renuiining  hours  to- 
gether, and  they  are  few  now.'* 

"Make  the  most  of  them,  deai*.  (let  all  the  sun- 
shine you  can ;  stay  wnth  Kichard.  I  am  going  to 
the  village  to  bid  Martha  good-bye." 

"Iliehard  says  you  are  to  sail  Wednesday?" 

"  Yes  ;  what  is  the  use  of  drawing  out  a  parting  ? 
We  liavc  had  a  happy  holiday.  Let  us  go  ere  its  spirit 
is  over.  There  nnist  be  times  and  seasons,  Elizabeth ; 
it  is  the  part  of  love  and  wisdom  nevcu*  to  force 
them.  Besides,  uncle  has  a  very  sore  place  in  Ids 
heart,  and  Kichai'd  can  hardlv  avoid  rubbino-  aijainst 
it.     It  is  best  for  us  to  go." 

Martha  was  a  little  dull,  and  Phyllis  was  struck 
with  her  explanation  :  "  I'm  a  bit  seliish  to-day ;  and 
t'  heart  that  isn't  loving  isn't  cheerful.  Ben  and  me 
hev  been  so  much  to  each  other,  that  it  comes  a  bit 
liard  to  hev  to  step  aside  for  a  lass  as  one  doesn't 
care  much  for."  She  put  her  checked  apron  to  her 
eyes,  and  wiped  away  a  few  tears. 

"  But  Ben  can  never  forget  what  you  did  for  him." 

"It  was  Mary  after  a'  that  saved  him.  I  nobbiifc 
prayed  night  and  day.  She  brought  the  magistrate 
and  t'  constable.     Men  don't  count  much  on  prayer." 

"Dear  Martha,  God  sends  by  whom  he  will  send. 
If  he  had  thought  it  best,  you  woidd  have  got  the 
order.  God  looks  afar  off — for  the  years  that  are  to 
come — when  you  may  be  where  all  tears  are  wiped 


away 


?) 


iHE  IIallam  Succession. 


121 


i 


"  I  know,  1  know." 

"Don^t  lot  iJen  think  jou  ^rrudge  him  the  fullest 
measure  of  his  happiness  and  deliverance.  Mothers 
must  have  a  deal  to  bear.  The  best  of  children  are 
blind,  I  think." 

xMartha  was  crying  quietly.     "  He  was  t'  last  left 
me.     I  hev  carried  him  i'  my  heart  for  montlis,  till 
my  heart  is  fair  empty  without  him.     I  wanted  him 
a  little  bit  to  mysen.     She's  a  good  girl,  is  Mary,  and 
I'm  trying  hard  to  lovelier;  but  I've  got  a  weight 
on  me  that's  bad  to  bide." 
"  If  it's  a  bitter  cup,  drink  it,  Martha." 
"  My  lass,  I'll  do  that.     There'll  be  a  blessing  in  t' 
bottom  o'  it,  never  fear.     I'm  nobbut  standing  as  a 
ban-n  does  wi'  a  cup  o'  medicine ;  and  when  a  thine 
IS  hard  to  take,  its  nobbut  human  nature  to  say  it't 
none  nice." 

"I  am  come  to  say  'good-bye,'  Martha;  I  don't 
want  to  leave  you  in  tears." 

"  Nay,  then,  is  ta !     Surely  to  goodness  thou  isn't 
going  in  t'  dead  o'  winter?" 

"  1  es.  We  leave  IIallam  to-morrow." 
"  Then  bide  a  bit.  I'll  mak'  a  cup  o'  tea  in  t'  liftle 
Wesley  tea-pot ;  and  I'll  toast  thee  a  Yorkshire  cake, 
and  we'll  cat  a  mouthful  together  in  this  world  before 
we  part.  AYe'll  be  none  like  to  meet  again." 
^  She  wiped  away  every  trace  of  tears,  and  drew  the 
httle  table  to  the  heart) i-stone,  and  sot  out  her  humble 
service.     And  she  quite  put  away  her  own  trouble 


I      I. 


I '  1 


I    If,    V 


r.P  ' ' 


122 


The  IIallam  Slcckssium. 


and  spoko  clieerfullj,  juid  served  Phyllis  with  busy 
hospitality. 

"  For,  yoii  see,"  she  said,  as  she  knelt  before  the 
fire  toasting  the  cake,  "  I  feel  as  if  you  were  a  pil- 
grim, Sister  Phyllis,  that  had  come  across  my  little 
cottage  on  your  way  to  the  kingdom.  And  if  I 
didn't  mak'  you  welcome,  and  say  a  hearty,  loving 
'  Godspeed  '  to  you,  I'd  happen  miss  a  bit  o'  my  own 
welcome  when  I  enter  the  gates  o'  the  kingdom.  So, 
eat  and  drink,  dearie ;  and  may  the  bread  strengthen 
you,  and  the  cup  be  full  o'  blessing." 

"  I  shall  never  forget  you,  Martha.  I  think  we 
shall  know  each  other  when  we  meet  again." 

"  For  sure  we  will.  It  will  be  in  '  Jerusalem  the 
golden'  I  don't  doubt.  Farewell,  sister!"  and  she 
took  the  sweet  young  face  between  her  large  hands 
and  kissed  it. 

Her  smile  was  bright,  her  words  cheerful,  but 
Phyllis  went  down  the  street  with  a  heavy  heart. 
She  stopped  at  the  house  where  Mr.  North  lodged  and 
asked  to  see  him.  lie  Ciune  down  to  her  with  a  smile ; 
but  when  she  said,  "  It  is  a  good-bye,  Mr.  North," 
his  face  grew  pale,  his  eyes  full  of  trouble ;  he  was 
unable  to  answ^er  her.  The  silence  became  painful, 
and  Phyllis  rose. 

"  Let  me  walk  a  little  way  with  you.  Pardon  me, 
I  was  not  prepared  for  this — blow." 

Then  Phyllis  knew  that  he  loved  her.  Then  he 
knew  it  hiir^olf.    A  great  pity  was  in  her  heart.    She 


The  IIallam  Succession. 


123 


isj 


wa3  silent  and  constrained,  and  tliey  walked  togetlKM' 
as  two  who  are  walking  toward  a  grave. 

"It  is  very  hard  for  me  to  say  'good-bye,'  Miss 
Fontaine.     I  shall  never,  never  forget  you." 

"  There  are  many  hard  things  in  life,  Mr.  North  ; 
we  can  but  bear  them." 

"Is  that  all?" 

"  That  is  all." 

"God  help  me!"  He  lifted  her  gloved  hand  and 
touched  it  with  his  lips.  No  knight  could  have  ex- 
pressed i:i  the  act  more  respect,  more  hopeless  ten- 
derness. Then  he  turned  silently  away.  Phyllis's 
lips  parted,  but  no  words  would  come.  She  was  full 
of  sorrow  for  the  noble,  suffering,  humble  heart.  She 
longed  to  say  a  kind  w^ord,  and  yet  felt  that  it  would 
be  unkind;  and  she  stood  still  watching  him  as  he 
went  farther  and  farther  away.  At  a  bend  in  the 
road  he  turned  and  saw  her  standing.  The  level  rays 
of  the  sun  set  her  in  a  clear  amber  light.  lie  gazed 
at  her  steadily  for  a  moment,  raised  his  hand  slowly, 
and  passed  forever  from  her  sight. 

There  was  something  so  pathetic  and  yet  so  lofty 
in  the  slight,  vanishing  figure,  with  the  hand  lifted 
heavenward,  that  slie  felt  strangely  affected,  and 
could  scarcely  restrain  her  tears. 

When  people  come  to  the  end  of  a  pleasure,  so 
many  little  things  show  it.  The  first  enthusiasms  are 
gone,  there  is  a  little  M'cariness  in  joy,  the  heart  bo- 
gins  to  turn  to  those  fundamental  alfections  and  those 


^ 


u 


1?U 


'P 


TiiK  Haij.am  Succession. 


hoinely  tics  which  are  tlio  main  reliance  of  life.  It 
ir^ceincd  to  Phyllis  that,  for  the  tirst  time,  yhe  was 
homesick.  The  low,  white,  rambling  wooden  house, 
spreading  itself  under  moss-covered  trees,  began  to 
grow  very  fair  in  her  memory.  The  mocking-birds 
were  calling  her  across  the  sea.  IShe  remembered  the 
tangles  of  the  yellow  jasmine,  the  merry  darkies  chat- 
ting and  singing  and  laughing,  and  her  soul  turned 
westward  with  an  indescribable  longing. 

And  she  thought  to  herself,  as  she  stood  upon  the 
terrace  and  looked  over  the  fair  land  she  was  leaving 
with  so  little  regret,  "  When  the  time  comes  for  nio 
to  go  to  my  heavenly  home,  I  shall  be  just  as  will- 
ing to  leave  the  earthly  one." 


The  Hallam  Succession. 


ILV) 


life.  It 
;lio  was 
1  iiouso, 
^'i^uu  to 
»g-l)irds 
red  tJic 
es  cliat- 
tnriied 

X)n  tlic 
leaving 
for  me 
IS  will- 


CTTAPTEPv  Y. 

"I  lovod  yon  nhvny,  I  will  not,  ilctiy  it;  not  for  tlireo  inoritiif,  and 
not  for  n  year;  hut  I  loved  you  iVom  tlio  lirst,  wlicu  I  wan  a  child, 
and  my  lovo  shall  not  wither,  till  death  shall  end  mo." — C}.i:uc 
SoN'd. 

"Our  own  acta  aro  our  attending?  angels,  in  whoso  llglit  or  shadow 
wo  walk  continually." 

rilllE  Foiitiilnc  place  was  a  loiifj^,  low,  white 
'X  buildiiiL^  lac'iii<jj  a  tiiMil)lin_i^  sea,  and  a  stretch 
of  burnt  sea-sands.  It  liad  no  arcliitectnral  beaut v, 
and  yet  it  was  a  wonderfully  ])i('tures(juc  ])lace. 
Broad  piazzas  draped  in  vines  ran  all  around  tlio 
lower  story,  and  the  upjier  revealed  itsi'lt'  only  in 
white  c;limpsos  among  dense  masses  of  foliauje.  Aud 
wliat  did  it  matter  that  outside  the  place  there  were 
brown  sand-hills  and  pale  sailed  ships?  A  high  hedge 
of  myrtles  hid  it  in  a  large  garden  full  of  the  scents 
of  the  sun-burnt  Sontli — a  garden  of  fragrant  bcanty, 
where  one  might  dream  idly  all  day  long. 

It  was  four  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  of  an  August 
day,  and  every  thing  was  still ;  only  the  cicadas  ran 
from  hedge  to  hedge  telling  each  other,  in  clear  res- 
onant voices,  how  hot  it  was.  The  house  door  stood 
open,  but  all  the  green  jalousies  were  closed,  and 
not  a  breath  of  air  stirred  the  lace  curtains  hansfinji: 
motionless  before  the  windows.      The  rooms,  large 


if         i 

til 


M 


It  I 


kiv  .n 


Pi  ' 

m 


120 


TiiK  IIai.lam  SrrrEssToN. 


■1'     t      ■  i    ■  1  ' 


and  lofty,  were  in  u  dusky  liglit,  tlieir  atmospliero 
still  and  wanu  and  heavy  with  tho  scent  of  flowers. 
On  the  back  piazza  half  a  dozen  negro  children  were 
sleeping  in  all  sorts  of  pictnres(pie  attitudes,  a  bright 
mulatto  women  was  dozing  in  a  rockir.'.g-chair,  and 
tho  cook,  having  "fixed"  his  dinner  ready  for  the 
stove,  had  rolled  himself  in  his  blanket  on  the  kitchen 
floor.  Silence  and  dusk  were  nvery-where,  the  dwell- 
ing might  have  been  an  enchar'od  one,  and  life  in  it 
lield  in  a  trance. 

In  one  of  the  upper  rooms  there  was  an  occu- 
pant well  calculated  to  carry  out  this  idea.  It  was 
Phyllis,  fast  asleep  upon  a  white  couch,  with  both 
hands  dropped  toward  the  floor.  But  the  sewing 
which  had  fallen  from  them,  and  the  thimble  still 
upon  her  linger,  was  guarantee  for  her  mortality. 
And  in  a  few  minutes  she  opened  her  soft,  dark  eyes, 
and  smiled  at  her  vacant  hands.  Then  she  glanced  at 
the  windows  ;  the  curtains  were  beginning  to  stir,  the 
gulf  breeze  had  sprung  up,  the  birds  were  twittering, 
and  the  house  awaken  ini;'. 

CI? 

But  it  was  pleasant  to  be  cpnet  and  think  in  such 
an  indolent  mood ;  and  Phyllis  had  some  reasons  for 
finding  the  "thinking"  engrossing.  First,  she  had 
had  a  letter  from  Elizabeth,  and  it  was  in  a  very 
hopeful  tone.  Antony  and  George  Eltham  were 
doing  very  w^ell,  and,  as  Lord  Eltham  had  become 
quietly  interested  in  the  firm,  the  squire  felt  more 
easy  as  to  its  final  success.     Second,  Mr.  Xorth  was 


The  IIallam  Succession. 


127 


1 


IcavinGj  ITunam,  liia  term  tliorc  had  cxpircrl,  and 
tliu  Coiifurt'iiw,  wliich  would  dctcnuiiio  his  next 
moveincMit,  was  then  Hitting.  Her  thoughts  were 
drifting  on  these  two  tuples  when  a  wonrin  softly  en- 
tered the  room.  She  looked  at  I'livllisVs  closed  eyes, 
and  with  a  smile  went  heie  and  tlu'i-e  laying  out  elean 
white  muslins,  and  knots  of  ]>ink  ril)l)ons,  and  all  the 
pretty  aceessories  of  a  young  niuideu's  evening  toilet. 

"Thar  now,  Miss  Pliill  !  J'se  ready — and  I  'speets 
thar's  some  good  news  for  you,  honey  ! '' 

Phyllis  opened  her  eyes,  "  I  heard  you,  Harriet. 
I  was  not  asleep.  As  for  goc^d  news,  1  thiidc  you  are 
always  expecting  it — besides,  I  had  some  to-day." 

"  Dat's  de  reason,  Miss  Phill — '  whar  you  going 
good  news  ?  Jest  wliar  I'se  been  afore.'  Dat's  de 
way.     I  reckon  I  knows  'bout  it." 

"  What  makes  you  know  this  time,  Harriet  ?  Has 
the  postman  been,  or  a  bird  whispered  it  to  you,  or 
have  some  of  Waul's  servants  been  making  a  call 
here  ? " 

"I  don't  'ceive  any  of  de  AYaul's  servants.  Miss 
Phill.  I'se  not  wanting  my  char'ctar  hung  on  ebery 
tree  top  in  de  county.  Ko,  I  draws  my  s'picions  in 
de  propercst  way.  Mass'r  Eichard  git  a  letter  dis 
morning.     Did  he  tell  von,  Miss  Phill  ?" 

"  I  have  not  seen  him  since  breakfast." 

"  I  thought  he'd  kind  ob  hold  back  'bout  dat  letter. 
1  knows  dat  letter  from  Mass'r  John.  I'se  sure 
ob  it." 


I 


/ 1 


■  s; 


128 


The  Hallam  Succession 


"  Did  you  look — at  the  outside  of  it,  I  mean — Har- 
riot ? " 

"  No,  Miss  Phill,  I  didn't  look  neider  at  de  outside, 
nor  de  inside ;  I's  not  dat  kind ;  I  look  at  Mass'r 
Kichard's  face.  Bless  you,  Miss  Phill !  Mass'r 
Richard  kaint  hide  nothing.  If  he  was  in  love  Har- 
riet would  know  it,  quick  as  a  flash — " 

"  I  think  not,  Harriet." 

"Den  I  tell  you  something,  Miss  Phill.  Mass'r 
Richard  been  in  love  eber  since  he  come  back  from 
ober  de  Atterlantic  Ocean.  P'raps  you  don't  know, 
but  I  done  found  him  out." 

Phyllis  laughed. 

"  I  tell  you  how  I  knows  it.  Mass'r  Richard  allays 
on  de  lookout  for  de  postman  ;  and  he  gits  a  heap  ob 
dem  bluish  betters  wid  a  lady's  face  in  de  corner." 

"  That  is  Queen  Victoria's  face.  You  don't  sup- 
pose Master  Richard  is  in  love  with  Queen  Vic- 
toria ? " 

"  Miss  Phill,  de  Fontaines  would  fall  in  love  wid  de 
moon,  and  think  dey  pay  hei'  a  compliment — dey 
mighty  proud  fambly,  de  Fontaines ;  but  Fse  no 
such  fool  as  not  to  know  de  lady's  head  am  worth  so 
many  cents  to  carry  de  letter.  Ihit,  Miss  Phill,  who 
sends  de  letters?     Dat  am  de  question." 

"  Of  course,  that  would  decide  it." 

"  Den  when  Mass'r  Richard  gits  one  of  dem  letters, 
he  sits  so  quiet -like,  thinking  and  smiling  to  himself, 
and  cf  you  speak  to  him,  he  a^iswcrs  you  kind  ob  far- 


The  IIallam  StcCEssiox. 


129 


n — Ilar- 

outside, 

t  Mass'r 

MassV 

)ve  llar- 


Miiss'r 
ick  from 
't  know, 


rd  allays 
heap  ob 
ner." 
m't  snp- 
en  Vic- 

0  wid  de 
lit — dey 
I'se  no 
vorth  so 
ill,  who 


letters, 
limself, 
ob  far- 


away, and  gentle.  I  done  tried  him  often.  But  he 
didn't  look  like  dat  at  all  when  he  git  de  letter  dis 
morning.  Mass'r  Richard  got  powerful  high  tem- 
per, Miss  Phill." 

Then  take  care  and  not  anger  him,  Harriet." 

"  You  see,  when  I  bring  in  de  letter,  I  bring  in 
wid  me  some  fresh  myrtles  and  de  tube  roses  for  de 
vases,  and  as  I  put  dem  in,  and  lixed  up  de  chimley- 
piece,  I  noticed  Mass'r  Richard  through  de  looking- 
glass — and  he  bit  his  lips,  and  he  drew  his  brows 
together,  and  he  crush'd  de  letter  up  in  his  hand." 

"  Harriet,  you  have  no  right  to  watch  your  master. 
It  is  a  very  mean  thing  to  do." 

"  Me  watch  Mass'r  Richard !  Now,  Miss  Phill,  I'se 
none  ob  dat  kind !  But  I  kaint  shut  my  eyes,  'spe- 
cially when  I'se  'tending  to  de  flow^er  vases." 

"  You  could  have  left  the  vases  just  at  that 
time.'* 

"  No,  Miss  Phill,  I'se  very  partic'lar  'bout  de  vases. 
Dey  has  to  be  'tended  to.  You  done  told  me  ober 
and  ober  to  hab  a  time  for  ebery  thing,  and  de  time 
for  de  vases  was  jist  den." 

"Then,  the  next  time  you  see  Master  Richard 
through  the  glass,  tell  him  so,  Harriet ;  that  is  only 
fail-,  you  know." 

"Go 'way.  Miss  Phill!  I'se  got  more  sense  dan 
tell  Miiss'r  Richard  anv  sich  thinir." 

Phyllis  did  not  answer;  she  was  thinking  of  a  de- 
cision she  might  be  compelled  to  make,  and  the  ques- 


i 


n  '^ 


Ull 


f 


130 


The  Hallam  Succession. 


tion  was  one  wliich  touched  her  very  nearly  on  very 
opposite  sides.  She  loved  her  brother  with  all  her 
heart.  Their  lives  had  been  spent  together,  for  Phyl- 
lis iiad  been  left  to  his  guardianship  when  very  young, 
and  had  learned  to  give  him  an  alfection  which  had 
something  in  it  of  the  clinging  reliance  of  the  child, 
as  well  as  of  the  proud  regard  of  the  sister.  But 
John  Millard  she  loved,  as  women  love  but  once.  He 
was  related  by  marriage  to  the  Fontaines,  and  had, 
wiien  Phyllis  and  liichard  were  children,  spent  much 
of  his  time  at  the  Fontaine  i^lace. 

But  even  as  boys  Richard  and  John  had  not  agreed. 
To  ask  "  why  "  is  to  ask  a  question  which  in  such 
cases  is  never  fully  answered.  It  is  easy  to  say  that 
Richard  was  jealous  of  his  sister,  and  Jealous  of 
John's  superiority  in  athletic  games,  and  that  John 
spoke  sneeringly  of  Richard's  aristocratic  airs,  and 
finer  gentleman  w^ays ;  but  there  was  something 
deeper  than  these  things,  a  natural  antipathy,  for 
which  there  seemed  to  be  no  reason,  and  iV.  ^.vhich 
there  wns  no  cure  but  the  compelling  pov. <?  of  a 
divine  love. 

John  "Millard  hnd  been  for  two  years  on  the  front- 
ier, and  there  had  been  verv  meacrer  and  irres^ular 
news  from  him.  If  any  one  had  asked  Richard,  "Are 
you  really  hopins;  that  he  has  been  killed  in  some 
Indian  fight?"  Richard  would  have  indignantly  de- 
nied it ;  aTid  yet  be  knew  that  if  such  a  fate  had  come 
to  his  cousin  Millard,  he  would  not  have  been  sorry. 


The  Hallam  Succession. 


131 


And  now  the  man,  with  the  easy  confidence  of  a  sol- 
dier who  is  accustomed  to  make  his  own  welcome, 
wrote  to  say  "  that  he  was  coming  to  New  Orleans, 
and  hoped  to  spend  a  good  deal  of  his  time  with 
them." 

Tlie  information  was  most  unwelcome  to  Richard. 
He  was  not  anxious  for  his  sister  to  marry;  least  of  all, 
to  marry  a  frontier  settler.  He  could  not  endure  the 
thought  of  Phyllis  roughing  life  in  some  log-cabin  on 
the  San  Marino.  That  was  at  least  the  aspect  in 
which  he  put  the  question  to  himself.  He  meant 
that  he  could  not  endure  tliat  John  Millard  should  at 
the  last  get  the  better  of  him  about  his  own  sister. 
And  when  he  put  his  foot  down  passionately,  and 
said,  between  his  closed  teeth,  "  He  shall  not  do  it !  " 
it  was  the  latter  thought  he  answered. 

He  felt  half  angry  at  Phyllis  for  being  so  lovely 
when  she  sat  down  opposite  him  at  dinner  time.  x\nd 
there  was  an  unusual  light  in  her  eyes  and  an  inde- 
scribable elation  in  her  manner  which  betrayed  her 
knowledge  of  the  coming  event  to  him. 

"  Phyllis,"  he  asked,  suddenly,  "  who  told  you  John 
Millard  was  coming  ? " 

"  Harriet  told  me  you  had  a  letter  from  him  this 


mornmg. 


5) 


5> 


"  Confound- 
"  Eichard ! " 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  Phyllis.     Be  so  good  as  to 
keep  Harriet  out  of  my  way.     Yes;  T  had  a  letter— 


^ 'I 


m 


ml 


I   ,, 


l\ 


132 


The  Hallam  Succession. 


a  most  impertinent  one,  I  think.  Civilized  human 
beings  usually  wait  for  an  invitation." 

"Unless  they  imagine  themselves  going  to  a  home." 

"  Home  i " 

"  Yes.  I  think  this  is,  in  some  sense,  John's  home. 
Mother  always  made  him  welcome  to  it.  Dear  Rich- 
ard, if  it  is  foolish  to  meet  troubles,  it  is  far  more 
foolish  to  meet  quarrels." 

"1  do  not  wish  to  quarrel,  Phyllis;  if  John  does 
not  talk  to  you  as  he  ought  not  to  talk.  He  ought  to 
have  more  modesty  than  to  ask  yo  ■  to  share  such  a 
home  as  he  can  offer  you." 

"  Richard,  dear,  you  are  in  a  bad  way.  There  is  a 
trustees'  meeting  to-night,  and  they  are  iu  trouble 
about  dollars  and  cents  ;  I  would  go,  if  I  were  you." 

"  And  have  to  help  the  deficiency  ? " 

"  Yes  ;  when  a  man  has  been  feeling  unkindly, 
and  talking  unkindly,  the  best  of  all  atonements  is  to 
do  a  good  deed." 

"  O,  Phyllis !  Phyllis !  " 

"  Yes,  Richard ;  and  you  w^ill  see  the  Bishop  there, 
very  likely ;  and  you  can  tell  the  good  old  man  what 
is  in  your  heart,  and  I  know  what  he  will  say.  '  It  is 
but  fair  and  square,  son  Richard,  to  treat  a  man  kindly 
till  he  does  you  some  wrong  which  deserves  unkind- 
ness.'  He  will  say, '  Son  Richard,  if  yon  have  not  the 
proofs  upon  which  to  blame  a  man,  don't  blame  him 
upon  likelihoods.' " 

"  My  good  little  sister,  what  do  you  want  me  to  do  ? " 


v\ 


■i 


^  i 


The  IIallam  tSuccKssii/x. 


133 


5> 


IS 


i} 


"  I  want  you  to  meet  Jolm,  as  we  were  mot  at  IIal- 
lam, with  trusting  courtesy." 

"If  you  will  promise  me  to — " 

"  I  will  promise  you  to  do  nothing  secretly  ;  to  do 
nothing  my  mother  would  blame  me  for.  To  ask 
more,  is  to  doubt  me,  and  doubt  I  do  not  deserve. 
Kow  put  on  your  hat  and  go  to  church.  They  will 
be  disappointed  if  you  are  absent." 

"  It  will  cost  me  $100," 

"  A  man  jught  to  pay  his  debts ;  and  it  is  nicer  to 
go  and  pay  them  than  to  compel  some  one  to  call 
here  and  ask  you  to  do  it." 

"  A  debt  ?  " 

"  Call  it  a  gift,  if  you  lj^:e.  Wlien  I  look  over 
the  cotton-lields,  Ilichard,  and  see  what  a  grand  ci'op 
you  are  going  to  have  this  year,  somehow  I  feel  as 
if  you  ought  to  have  said  $200." 

"  Give  me  my  hat,  Phyllis.  You  have  won,  as  you 
always  do."  And  he  stooped  and  kissed  her.,  and 
then  went  slowly  through  the  garden  to  the  road. 

Slie  did  not  see  him  again  that  night,  but  in  the 
morning  he  was  very  bright  and  cheerful.  "  I  am 
going  to  ride  to  Greyson's  Timbers,  Phyllis,"  he  said  ; 
"  I  have  some  business  with  Greyson,  and  John  will 
be  almost  sure  to  '  noon '  there.  So  we  shall  likely 
come  back  too;ether." 

Siie  smiled  gladly,  but  knew  her  brother  too  well 
to  either  inquire  into  his  motives  or  comment  upon 
them.     It  was  sufficient  that  Richard  had  conquered 


134 


The  Hallam  Succession. 


|i  I 


liis  lower  self,  and  whether  the  victory  liad  been  a 
single-handed  one,  or  whether  the  BirJiop  had  been  an 
ally,  was  not  of  vital  importance.  One  may  enjoy 
the  perfume  of  a  good  action  without  investigating 
the  processes  of  its  production. 

In  the  middle  of  the  afternoon  she  heard  their  ar- 
rival. It  was  a  pleasant  thing  to  hear  the  sound  of 
men's  voices  and  laughter,  and  all  that  cheerful  con- 
fusion which  as  surely  follows  their  advent  as  thun- 
der follows  lightning.  And  Phyllis  found  it  very 
pleasant  to  lie  still  and  think  of  the  past,  and  put  off, 
just  for  an  hour  or  two,  whatever  of  joy  or  soitow 
was  coming  to  meet  her  ;  for  s1k>  had  not  seen  John 
for  two  years.  lie  might  have  ceased  to  love  her. 
He  mio;ht  be  so  chanwd  that  she  Mould  not  dare  to 
love  him.  But  in  the  main  she  thought  hopefully. 
True  love,  like  true  faith,  when  there  seems  to  be 
nothing  at  all  to  rest  upon, 

"  Treads  on  the  void  and  finds 
The  lock  beneath." 

Few  w^omen  will  blame  Phyllis  for  being  unusually 
careful  about  her  toilet,  and  for  going  down  stairs 
with  a  little  tremor  at  her  heart.  Even  when  she 
could  hear  Richard  and  John  talking,  she  still  delayed 
the  moment  she  had  been  longing  for.  She  walked 
into  the  dining-room,  looked  at  the  boy  setting 
the  table,  and  altered  the  arrangement  of  the  flowers. 
She  looked  into  the  parlor,  raised  a  curtain,  and 
opened  the  piano,  and  then,  half  aphamed  of  her  self- 


h 


The  Hallam  Succession. 


135 


i.i'^'y 


consciousness,  went  to  the  front  piazza,  where  the 
young  men  were  sitting. 

There  was  a  subtle  likeness  between  Ricliard  and 
liis  English  ancestors  that  neither  intermarriage  cli- 
mate, nor  educational  surroundings  had  been  able  to 
overcome  ;  but  between  him  and  John  Millard  tiiere 
were  radical  dissimilarities.  Eichard  was  sitting 
on  the  topmost  of  the  broad  white  steps  which  led 
from  the  piazza  to  the  garden.  With  the  exception 
of  a  narrow  black  ribbon  round  his  throat,  he  was  al- 
together dressed  in  white  ;  and  tliis  dress  was  a  sin- 
gularly becoming  contrast  to  liis  black  hair  and  glow- 
ing dark  eyes.  And  in  every  attitude  which  he  took 
he  managed  his  tall  stature  with  an  indolent  grace 
suggestive  of  an  unlimited  capacity  for  pride,  passion, 
aristocratic — orcottonocratic — self-sufficiency.  In  his 
best  moods  he  was  well  aware  of  the  dangerous  ])oints 
in  his  character,  and  kept  a  guard  over  them  ;  other- 
wise they  came  prominently  forward  ;  and,  sitting  in 
John  Millard's  presence,  Richard  Fontaine  was  very 
nuich  indeed  the  Richard  Fontaine  of  a  nature  dis- 
tinctly overbearing  and  uncontrolled. 

John  Millard  leaned  against  the  pillar  of  the  piazza, 
talking  to  him.  He  had  a  brown,  handsome  face, 
and  short,  brown,  curly  hair.  His  eyes  were  very 
large  and  blue,  with  that  steely  look  in  them  which 
snaps  like  lightning  when  any  thing  strikes  fire  from 
the  heart.  He  was  very  tall  and  straight,  and  had  a 
lofty  carriage  and  an  air  of   command.     His  dresa 


13u 


TuK  Hallam  Succession. 


was  that  of  an  ordinary  frontiersman,  and  he  wore 
no  anus  of  any  kind,  yet  any  one  would  have  said, 
with  the  invincible  assurance  of  a  sudden  presenti- 
ment, "  The  man  is  a  soldier." 

Kichard  and  he  were  talking  of  frontier  defense, 
and  Richard,  out  of  pure  contradiction,  was  opposing 
it.  In  belittling  the  cause  he  had  some  idea  that  he 
was  snubbing  the  man  who  had  been  fighting  for  it. 
John  was  just  going  to  reply  when  Phyllis's  ap- 
proach broke  the  sentence  in  two,  and  he  did  not  finish 
it.  He  stood  still  watching  her,  his  whole  soul  in  his 
face  ;  and,  when  he  took  her  hands,  said,  heartily,  "  O, 
Phyllis,  I  am  so  hajipy  to  see  you  again !  I  was 
afraid  I  never  would  ! " 

"  What  nonsense  !  "  said  Richard,  coldly ;  "  a  jour- 
ney to  Europe  is  a  trifle — no  need  to  make  a  fuss 
about  it ;  is  there,  Phyllis  ?  Come,  let  us  go  to  din- 
ner.    I  hear  the  bell." 

Before  dinner  was  over  the  sun  had  set  and  the 
moon  risen.  The  mocking-birds  were  singing,  the 
fire-flies  executing,  in  the  sweet,  languid  atmospliere, 
a  dance  full  of  mystery.  The  garden  w^as  like  a  land 
of  enchantment.  It  was  easy  to  sit  still  and  let  the 
beautv  of  heaven  and  earth  sink  into  the  heart.  And 
for  some  time  John  was  contented  with  it.  It  was 
enough  to  sit  and  watch  the  white-robed  figure  of 
Phyllis,  which  was  thrown  into  the  fairest  relief  by 
the  green  vines  behind  it.  And  Richard  was  silent 
because  he  was  trying  to  conquer  his  resentment  at 


The  IIallam  Succession. 


137 


John  fiu(lin<r  8iitisfuctioii  in  the  exquisite  picture. 
Perl  laps  few  people  understand  how  jealous  a  true 
brotherly  love  can  be,  how  tenderly  careful  of  a  sis- 
ter's welfare,  how  watchful  of  all  that  pertains  to  her 
future  happiness,  how  proud  of  her  beauty  and  lier 
goodness,  how  exacting  of  all  pretenders  to  her  favor. 
His  ideal  husband  for  riiyllis  was  not  John  Millard. 
He  wondered  what  she  could  see  to  admire  in  tlie 
bronzed  frohtier  soldier.  He  wondered  how  John 
could  dare  to  think  of  transplanting  a  gentlewoman 
like  Phyllis  from  tlie  repose  and  luxury  of  her  pres- 
ent home  to  the  change  and  dangers  and  hardships  of 
pioneer  life. 

It  would  have  been  an  uncomfortable  evenino^  if 
the  Bishop  had  not  called.  He  looked  at  John  and 
loved  him  Their  souls  touched  each  other  when  they 
clasped  hands.  Pei'haps  it  was  because  the  nature  of 
both  men  was  militant — perhaps  because  both  men 
loved  frontier  fighting.  "  I  like,"  said  the  old  soldier 
of  Christ,  "  I  dearly  like  to  follow  the  devil  to  his  out- 
posts. He  has  often  fine  fellows  in  them,  souls  well 
worth  saving.  I  was  the  first  Methodist — I  may  say 
the  first  Protestant  preacher — that  entered  Washing- 
ton County,  in  Texas  Texas  was  one  of  our  mission 
stations  in  1837.  I  never  w^as  as  happy  as  when  lift- 
ing the  cross  of  Christ  in  some  camp  of  outlaws." 

"  Did  they  listen  to  you  ? " 

"  Gladly.  Many  of  them  clung  to  it.  The  worst 
of  them  respected  and  protected  me.     One  night  I 


i 

■  \ 


138 


The  Hallam  Succession. 


came  to  a  lonely  log-lioiise  in  tlie  Brazos  woods — that 
was  '  far,  far  West'  then.  I  tliink  the  eiglit  men  in 
it  were  tliieves  ;  I  believe  that  they  intended  to  rob, 
and  pLjrhaps  to  murder,  me.  But  they  gave  me  sup- 
per, and  took  my  saddle-bags,  and  put  up  my  horse. 
'  Reckon  you're  from  the  States,'  one  said.  '  Twelve 
months  ago.'  '  Any  news  ? '  '  The  grandest.  If 
you'll  get  your  boys  togetlier  Til  tell  you  it.'  " 

They  gathered  very  quickly,  lit  their  pipes,  and  sat 
down  ;  and,  sitting  there  amon^  tliem,  1  preached  the 
very  best  sermon  I  ever  })reached  in  my  life.  I  was 
weeping  before  Td  done,  and  they  were  just  as 
wretched  as  I  like  to  see  sinners.  I  laid  down  among 
them  and  slept  soundly  and  safely.  Ten  years  after- 
ward I  gave  the  sacrament  to  four  of  these  very  men 
in  Bastrop  Methodist  Church.  If  I  was  a  young  man 
I  would  be  in  the  Rio  Grande  District.  I  would  carry 
'  the  glad  tidings '  to  the  ranger  camps  on  the  Chicon 
and  the  Secor,  and  the  United  States  forts  on  the 
Mexican  border.  It  is  '  the  few  sheep  in  the  wilder- 
ness '  that  I  love  to  seek  ;  yea,  it  is  the  scape-goats  that, 
loaded  with  the  sins  of  civilized  communities,  have 
been  driven  from  among  them  !  " 

Richard  started  to  his  feet.  "  My  dear  father,  al- 
most you  persuade  me  to  be  a  missionary  ! " 

"Ah,  son  Richard,  if  you  had  the  'call'  it  would 
be  no  uncertain  one  '  You  would  not  say  '  almost ; ' 
but  it  is  a  grand  thing  to  feel  your  heart  stir  to  the 
trumpet,  even  though  you  don't  buckle  on  the  armor. 


TuE  IIallam  Succession. 


139 


lufc 


A  respectable,  cold  indifference  makes  me  despair  of 
a  soul.     I  have  more  hope  for  a  flagrant  sinner." 

"I  am  sure,"  said  John,  "our  cam[)  on  the  San 
Saba  would  welcome  you.  One  night  a  stranger 
came  along  who  had  with  hi?!i  a  child — a  little  chap 
about  five  years  old.  Hg  had  been  left  i»ii  orpiian, 
and  the  man  was  taking  him  to  an  nncle  that  lived 
farther  on.  As  we  were  sitting  about  the  lire  ho 
said,  '  I'm  going  into  the  wagon  now.  I'm  going  to 
sleep.  AVho'll  hear  my  prayers  ? '  And  half  a  dozen 
of  the  boys  said,  '  I  will,'  and  he  knelt  down  at  the 
knee  of  Bill  Burleson,  and  clasped  his  hands  and 
said  '  Our  Father  ; '  and  I  tell  yon,  sir,  there  wasn't  a 
dry  eye  in  camp  when  the  little  chap  said  *  Amen.' 
And  I  don't  believe  there  was  an  oath  or  a  bad  word 
said  that  night;  every  one  felt  as  if  there  was  an 
angel  among  us." 

"  Thank  you,  John  Millard.  I  like  to  hear  such 
incidents.  It's  hard  to  kill  the  divinity  in  any  man. 
And  you  are  on  the  San  Saba  ?     Tell  me  about  it." 

It  was  impossible  for  Richard  to  resist  the  enthu- 
siasm of  the  conversation  which  followed.  He  forgot 
all  his  jealousy  and  pride,  and  listened,  with  flashing 
eyes  and  eager  face,  and  felt  no  angry  impulse, 
although  Phyllis  sat  between  the  Bishop  and  John, 
and  John  held  her  hand  in  his.     But  when  the  two 


you 


n 


£r   men   were   left  alone  the   reaction   came   to 


Richard.     lie  was  sliy  and  cold.     Jolin  did  not  per- 
ceive it ;  liG  was  too  happy  in  his  own  thoughts. 


140 


The  IIallam  Succession. 


"  AVhat  a  lender  heart  your  sister  lias,  Rieliard. 
Did  you  see  liovv  interested  slie  was  when  I  was  tell- 
hig  about  the  sufferings  of  the  women  and  children 
on  the  frontier?" 

"  No ;  I  fancied  she  was  rather  bored." 

John  was  at  once  dashed,  and  looked  into  Richard's 
face,  and  felt  as  if  he  had  becui  making  a  brairsinir 
fool  of  himself.  And  liichard  was  anj^rv,  and 
ashamed,  for  a  gentleman  never  tells  a  lie,  though  it 
be  only  to  his  own  consciousness,  without  feeling  un- 
speakably mean.  And  by  a  reiiex  motion  of  account- 
ability he  was  angry  with  John  for  provoking  him 
into  so  contemptible  a  position. 

The  "  good-night"  was  a  cooler  c.^  chan  the  even- 
ing had  promised  ;  but  Richard  had  recollected  him- 
self before  he  met  John  in  the  morning;  and  John, 
foi'  Phyllis's  sake,  was  anxious  to  preserve  a  kindly 
feeling.  Love  made  him  wise  and  forbearing;  and 
he  was  happy,  and  happiness  makes  good  men  toler- 
ant ;  so  that  Richard  soon  saw  that  John  would  give 
him  no  excuse  for  a  quarrel.  iLe  hardly  knew  whether 
he  was  glad  or  sorry,  and  the  actions  and  speech  of 
one  hour  frequently  contradicted  those  of  the  next. 

Still  there  followed  many  days  of  sunshine  and 
happy  leisure,  of  boating  and  fishing,  of  riding  upon 
the  long  stretch  of  hard  sands,  of  sweet,  silent  games 
of  chess  in  shady  corners,  of  happy  communion  in 
song  and  story,  and  of  conscious  conversations  wherein 
so  few  words  meant   so   much.      And  perhaps  the 


-ailKiiiA'^,^ 


p--'  .•.««*^»Kr 


Tnfi  Hall  AM  Succession. 


141 


lovers  In  tlieir  personal  joy  s^rew  a  little  wolfish,  for 
one  night  the  Bi.shop  said  to  Phyllis,  "  ('oiiie  ami  see 
me  in  the  morning,  daughter,  I  have  sometiiing  to  say 
to  you." 

He  was  sitting  waiting  for  her  under  an  enormous 
iig-tree,  a  tree  so  large  that  the  space  it  shadowed 
made  a  i)retty  parlor,  with  roof  and  walls  of  foliage 
so  dense  that  not  ev'eii  a  tropical  showc^r  could  pene- 
trate them.  He  sat  in  a  large  wicker-chair,  and  on 
the  rustic  table  beside  him  was  a  cup  of  collee,  a 
couple  of  1.  iky  biscuits,  and  a  plate  of  great  purple 
figs,  just  gathered  from  the  branches  above  him. 
When  Phj»  His  came,  he  pulled  a  rocking-chair  to  his 
side,  and  touched  a  little  hand-bell.  "  You  shall  have 
some  coffee  with  me,  and  some  bread  and  fruit ;  eat- 
ing lubricates  talking,  dear,  and  I  want  to  talk  to  you 
— very  seriously." 

"About  John,  father?" 

"  Yes,  about  John.  You  know  your  own  mind, 
Phyllis  Fontaine?  You  are  not  playing  with  a  good 
man's  heart?" 

"  I  told  you  two  years  ago,  father,  that  I  loved  John. 
I  love  him  still.  I  have  applied  the  test  my  leader 
gave  me,  and  which  I  told  you  of.  I  am  more  than 
willing  to  take  John  for  eternity;  I  should  be  miserable 
if  I  thought  death  could  part  us." 

"  Yery  good — so  far ;  that  is,  for  John  and  your- 
self. But  you  nmst  think  of  Kichard.  He  has  claims 
upon  you,  also.     Last  night  I  saw  how  he  suffered, 


I''     r 


i    I 


liH^b.i 


'■' 


The  Hali.a.1  S^ocessiox 
^ow  he  straggled  to  subdue  hi,  f. 
"'0'"ent  that  te.npe,-  „,'    1^      T"'     ^^^='''^'  ^"v 
"■M  be  .o..o«-.     Vo„  "2;"^'^''^  '""'  »d  then  the.; 

'"S  -•"•  i.i.n.    Joh        d  '    :""  ''  """  ""'''^'•^'-''- 
«f  jour  present  po.ft  on  f    "'^  "■'°^"'<^  '--"ance 

^-fci.ardh..,,,ht!::ir^-«--^^tai,3, 

^^  Am  I  selfish,  father?" 
"  I  tliink  you  are." 
"  What  must  r  do  ? " 
''Send  John  to  snoat  r.7  •  i 
-■"  ^-e  your  brother  alt:?  '°  '''^•"^^'^-     ^hat 

-'-Jo'.-opro;o.e,^;C;-j'-'-'^-  agree, 
-;-tme,,,,,,,y,^^J-ae„.atter.     You 

•^  6s,  J  can." 
In  the  evening  PJy-,,;,  ,,,„^,, 
'le  'vas  walking  in  hi,  „,  /  ''"P  *?"'"• 

'--,  and  wh:n  he  1  :  "  "'^"""^  "'<'  -<'' 
'"<^«t  her.  A  glance  1!!,  T  """'"^''  ''"  ^^"^"^  to 
'^d  her  into  the  h ttt       ,      '   '"'  ^'''  ^"'««'«nt.    He 

>•<>-- in  tr;;;:,::ss:;r^'^--"-%-ee.  -s: 

^  Gs,  fatJior      Til 

"  Wliat  was  said  ? " 

people  were  talking  about  his 


'■-•■  ■fK7i*ari:stss:-^_<j;,ij;;;gjjy^ 


The  Hall  am  Succession. 


143 


intimacy  witli  me ;  and  tliat,  as  marriage  was  impossi- 
ble between  ns,  the  intimacy  must  cease." 

"  What  else  ? " 

"  I  do  not  know ;  many  hard  things  were  said  on 
both  sides,  and  Jolin  went  away  in  a  passion." 

"  Go  home  and  see  your  brother,  and  make  some 
concessions  to  his  claim  upon  your  love.  Tell  him 
that  you  will  not  marry  John  for  two  years;  that  will 
give  John  time  to  prepare  in  some  measure  for  your 
comfort.  Promise  in  addition  any  thing  that  is  rea- 
sonable. I  fear  Richard's  temper,  l)ut  I  fear  John's 
more  ;  for  the  anger  of  a  patient  man  is  a  deep  anger, 
and  John  has  been  patient,  very.  Don't  you  he  im- 
patient, Phyllis.  Wait  for  time  to  carry  yon  over  the 
stream,  and  don't  fling  yourself  into  the  Hood,  and 
perish." 

"  Two  years !  " 

"P)nt  reflect — a  quarrel  becomes  a  duel  here  very 
readily — dare  yon  provoke  such  a  possibiHty  ?  " 

"  Dear  father,  pray  for  me." 

"I  will.  Trust  (Tod,  and  Cvcry  rod  shall  blossom 
for  yon.  Be  patient  and  prudent.  Birds  build  their 
nests  before  they  mate,  and  love  needs  the  consecra- 
tion of  a  home.  Tell  John  to  make  one  for  you,  and 
then  to  come  and  speak  to  Richard  again.  I  don't 
say,  wait  for  riches ;  but  I  do  say,  wait  for  comforts. 
Comforts  keep  men  innocent,  bind  them  to  virtue  by 
tlie  strong  cords  of  friends  families,  homes,  and  the 
kindnesses  of  kindred." 

10 


t: 


i 
I 


llifi' 


144 


The  Hallam  Succession. 


But  when  Phyllis  arrived  at  home  Eicliard  was  not 
there,  lie  had  gone  to  the  plantation,  and  left  word 
for  his  sister  that  he  might  not  r«^tnrn  until  late  the 
following  day.  Phyllis  was  very  wretched.  She 
could  hardly  trust  the  message.  It  was  possil)le  tliat 
Kichard  had  considered  llight  from  temptation  the 
wisest  course,  and  that  he  expected  John  would  leave 
during  his  absence.  On  the  other  hand,  it  was  just 
as  likely  that  John  would  not  leave,  and  that  the 
quarrel  would  be  renewed  at  the  hotel,  or  upon  the 
street,  under  circumstances  where  every  influence 
would  be  against  the  young  men. 

She  was  sure  that  if  she  had  John's  promise  to 
keep  peace  with  Pichard,  that  he  would  not  break  it ; 
but  she  did  not  know  whether  he  was  still  in  the 
village  or  had  gone  away  altogether.  If  the  latter, 
she  would  certainly  receive  some  message  from  him  ; 
and,  if  no  message  came,  she  must  conclude  that  he 
was  waiting  for  an  opportunity  to  see  her. 

Harriet  was  sure  that  he  was  at  the  village  '  hotel.' 
"Dime  done  seen  him  thar,"  she  said,  positively,  "  and 
Mass'r  John  no  sich  fool  as  go  'way  widout  talkin' 
up  for  himself.  I  was  'stonished  dis  afternoon,  Miss 
Phill,  he  took  Mass'r  Richard's  worry  in'  dat  quiet- 
like ;  but  1  could  see  de  bearin's  ob  things  mighty 
plain 


)> 


"  You  heard  the  quarrel,  then,  Harriet  ?  " 
"  Couldn't  help  hearin'  ob  it,  Miss  Phill,  no  way  ; 
'case  I  right  thar.     I  was  in  de  dinin'-room  tixin'  up 


>r 


V        '  ^ 


-\?(.#v'-i^»tv  t;"JW«UttiBWt*.«i-tf,»w«t  rfT-i. 


T 


The  IIallam  Succession. 


145 


: 


de  clean  window  curtains,  ana  de  young  gen'lenien 
were  on  de  p'azza.  Cassie  never  do  fix  de  curtains 
right ;  she's  not  got  de  liang  ob  deni,  Miss  Pliill ;  so 
I  jist  made  up  my  mind  to  do  'em  myself  ;  and  while 
I  was  busy  as  a  honey-bee  'bout  dem,  Mass'r  Kichard 
he  walk  proud-like  up  to  Mass'r  John,  and  say,  '  he 
want  to  sjDcak  a  few  W(^rds  wid  him.'  Den  I  kind  ob 
open  my  ears,  case,  Miss  Phill,  when  gen'lenien  want 
to  '  say  a  few  words,'  dey're  most  ob  de  time  onpleas- 
ant  ones." 

"  Did  Master  John  answer  ?  " 

"  He  looked  kind  ob  '  up-head,'  and  says  he, '  Dat  all 
right.  I'se  nothin'  'gainst  you  sayin'  dem.'  So  Mass'r 
Ei chard  he  tell  him  dat  he  hear  some  talk  down  town, 
and  dat  he  won't  have  you  talked  'bout,  and  dat  as 
tliar  was  to  be  no  marryin'  'tween  you  two,  Mass'r 
John  better  go  'way." 

"  Did  Master  Kichard  say  '  go  away,'  Harriet  ?  " 

"Dat's  jist  what  he  say— <  go  'way,'  and  Mass'r 
John  he  flasli  up  like,  and  say,  he  sorry  to  be  turn'd 
out  ob  de  olc  home,  and  dat  he'll  go  as  soon  as  he 
see  you.  Den  Mass'r  Richard,  he  git  up  in  one  ob 
his  white-hot  still  tempers,  and  he  say,  'No  gen'le- 
men  need  more  'an  one  word  ; '  and  Mass'r  John  say, 
'  No  gen'leman  eber  say  dat  one  word  ;'  and  MassV 
Ricliard  say,  '  Sir,  you  in  my  house,  and  you  'sume 
on  dat  position  ;'  and  Mass'r  John  say  he  '  mighty 
soon  be  in  some  oder  house,  and  den  Mass'r  Richard 
not  hab  sich  'cuse  ; '  and,  wid  dat,  he  stamp  his  foot, 


^ 


!■  y 


•  «  S  ii 

'1  I'.  ■; 


4 

;  r 

f 

;  I 


i 


if 


M 


146 


The  IIallam  Succession. 


and  walk  off  like  both  sides  ob  de  argument  'long  to 
him." 

"  Then  what,  Harriet  ?  " 

"  Mass'r  Richard  tear  roun'  to  de  stables,  and  he 
tole  Moke  to  saddle  up  Prince,  and  whilst  de  poor 
boy  doin'  his  best,  he  storm  roun'  at  dis  thing  and 
dat  thing,  till  Prince  woj'k  himself  up  in  a  fury,  too, 
and  I  'spects  dey's  both  tired  out  by  dis  time.  Prince 
he  jist  reared  and  kicked  and  foamed  at  de  mouth, 
and  did  all  de  debil's  own  horse  could  do  to  fling 
Mass'r  Richard,  and  Mass'r  Richard,  he  de  Avhitest 
white  man  any  body  eber  seen.  Ki !  but  de  whip 
come  down  steady.  Miss  Phyli." 

"  O,  Harriet,  how  wretched  you  do  make  me." 

"  Dar  isn't  a  bit  need  to  worry.  Miss  Phyll.  Prince 
done  tried  himself  wid  Mass'r  Ricliard  'fore  dis,  and 
he  alius  come  in  de  stable  meek  as  a  lamb.  When 
Mass'r  Richard's  got  dat  dumb  debil  in  him,  he'd  ride 
a  ragin'  lion,  and  bring  him  home  like  a  lamb." 

"  It's  not  that,  Harriet ;  it's  not  that.  But  if  he 
meet  Master  John  there  will  be  trouble — and  O,  the 
sin  of  it." 

"  Dat  am  true  as  preachin',  Miss  Phyll." 

"  If  I  could  only  see  John  Millard." 

"  I'll  mighty  soon  go  for  him,  ef  you  say  so." 

"No;  that  will  not  do." 

For  Phyllis  was  aware  that  such  a  messenger  would 
only  make  more  trouble.  Harriet  was  known  to  be 
her  maid,  and  John  was  known  to  be  her  lover.     To 


i 


I 


f 


I 


The  Hali.am  Succession. 


1-i 


I 


do  any  thing  which  would  give  cause  for  ill-natured 
renuirks  was  to  find  Richard  the  excuse  which  would 
permit  him  active  interference.  "I  must  avoid  the 
appearance  of  evil,"  she  said,  anxiously.  "  What 
must  I  do  ?  " 

"Clar'  I  don't  know.  Miss  Phyll.  'Pears  like 
you'se  on  a  bery  dangerous  road.  I  reckon  you'd 
best  pray  for  de  grace  to  choose  de  cleanest,  safest 
steppin'-stones." 

"  Yes  ;  that  is  best,  Harriet." 

But  Phyllis  was  noi  one  of  those  rash  beings  who 
rush  into  the  presence  of  God  without  thought  or 
solemnity.  Slowly  bending,  body  and  soul,  she  com- 
muned with  her  own  heart  and  was  still,  until  it 
burned  within  her,  and  the  supplication  came.  When 
she  rose  from  her  knees,  she  was  resigned  in  all 
things  to  God's  will,  >  matter  what  self-denial  it 
involved;  and  she  was  not  unhappy.  For,  O  belif/re 
this  truth,  the  saddest  thing  under  the  sky  is  a  soul 
incapable  of  sadness !  Most  blessed  are  those  souls 
who  are  capable  of  lodging  so  great  a  guest  as  Sor- 
row, who  know  how  to  regret,  and  how  to  desire, 
and  who  have  learned  that  with  renunciation  life 
begins. 

And  Phyllis  foresaw  that  renunciation  would  be 
the  price  of  peace.  At  the  commencement  of  the  in- 
quiry with  her  own  soul  she  had  refused  to  enter- 
tain the  idea.  She  had  tried  to  find  reasons  for  seek- 
ing some  other  human  adviser  than  Bishop  Elliott, 


M  ! 


M' 


1^8 


TiiE  Hallam  Succkssion. 


because  she  feared  that  he  would  counsel  hard  thing's 
to  her.  Fre  she  slept,  Iiowever,  she  had  determined 
to  go  to  him  very  early  in  the  morning. 

But  while  she  was  drinking  her  coffee  John  Mil- 
lard entered  the  room.  lie  took  her  hands,  and, 
looking  sorrowfully  into  her  face,  said,  "  Phyllis,  my 
dearest,  it  was  not  my  fault." 

"  I  believe  you,  John." 

"  And  you  love  me,  Phyllis  ? " 

"  I  shall  always  love  you,  for  I  believe  you  will 
always  try  to  deserve  my  love.  But  we  must  part  at 
present.  I  was  just  going  to  ask  tlie  Bishop  to  tell 
you  this.  I  can  trust  you,  John,  and  you  can  trust 
me.  He  will  tell  you  what  you  ought  to  do.  And 
don't  tliink  hard  of  me  if  I  say  '  good-bye '  now  ;  for 
though  Richard  went  to  the  plantation  last  night,  lie 
may  be  back  any  hour,  and  for  my  sake  you  must 
avoid  him." 

"  Phyllis,  you  are  asking  a  very  hard  thing,  Rich- 
ard has  said  words  which  I  can  scarcely  ignore.  Two 
or  three  men  have  inquired  if  I  was  going  to  put  up 
with  them  ? " 

"What  kind  of  men?" 

"  Captain  Lefferts  and  Jim  Wade  and — " 

"  Nay,  you  need  say  no  more.  Will  you  sacrifice 
my  happiness  to  the  opinion  of  Captain  Lefferts  and 
Jim  Wade  ?  Are  you  their  slave  ?  Richard  is  not 
himself  now ;  if  you  permit  him  to  force  a  fight  upon 
you,  you  will  both  sorrow  for  it  all  your  lives." 


) 


t 


I 


The  IIallam  Succebbion. 


149 


"  I  will  go  and  see  the  Bishop,  and  do  whatever 
he  tclhi  nic.     If  I  need  a  defender  from  ill  words—  " 

"  Yon  may  safely  leave  yonr  good  name  in  his  care, 
John.  And  who  M'ould  dare  to  dispnte  a  word  he 
Gaid  ?  Dear  John,  I  knew  I  could  trust  you.  Good- 
bye, my  love ! " 

lie  drew  her  to.  his  breast  and  kissed  her,  and  with 
a  look  of  fervent,  sorrowful  love,  was  leaving  the 
room,  when  Kiehard  entered  by  another  door.  He 
intercepted  the  glance,  and  returned  it  to  John  with 
one  of  contemptuous  defiant  anger.  It  did  r  .  help 
to  soothe  Pdcbard  that  John  looked  u^m-  .ally  hand- 
some. There  was  a  fire  and  j  3rsuasion  in  his  face,  a 
tenderness  and  grace  in  his  manner,  that  was  very 
irritating,  and  Richard  could  neither  control  his  hands 
nor  his  tongue.  lie  began  at  once  to  feel  for  his 
pistol.  "  Why  is  John  Millard  here  ?  "  he  asked  of 
Phyllis.     "  Answer  me  that." 

'^  He  is  here  to  promise  me  that  he  wnll  not  put 
the  name  of  Phyllis  Fontaine  in  the  mouth  of  every 
drunken  gambler  and  scornful  man  and  woman  to 
satisfy  his  own  selfish,  false  pride." 

"  He  is  too  big  a  coward  to  fight  a  gentleman,  he 
prefers  fighting  half-armed  savages  ;  but  I  propose  to 
honor  his  behavior  with  more  attention  than  it  de- 
serves— unless  he  runs  away." 

"  John,  dear  John,  do  not  mind  what  Eichard  says 
now.  He  will  be  sorry  for  it.  If  you  care  for 
me,   ever   so   little,    "ou   will   not   fight   about  me. 


{!; 


'   (' 


150  The  IIallam  Succession. 

Tlie  sliame  would  kill  me.  I  don't  deserve  it.  I 
will  never  marry  a  man  wlio  drags  my  name  into 
a  quarrel.  Eichard,  for  our  mother's  sake,  be  your- 
self. Brotlier,  you  ought  to  protect  me !  I  appeal 
to  you!  For  God's  sake,  dear  Richard,  give  me 
that  pistol ! " 

"  Phyllis,"  said  John,  "  I  will  go.  I  will  not  fight. 
Your  desire  is  sufficient." 

"  Coward  !  You  shall  fif]jht  me  !  I  will  call  vou 
coward  wherever  I  meet  you." 

"  No  one,  who  knows  us  both,  will  believe  you." 

It  was  not  the  taunt,  so  much  as  the  look  of  deep 
affection  which  John  gave  Phyllis,  that  irritated  the 
angry  man  beyond  further  control.  In  a  moment  he 
had  struck  John,  and  John  had  cocked  his  pistol.  In 
the  same  moment  Phyllis  was  between  them,  looking 
into  John's  eyes,  and  just  touching  the  dangerous 
weapon.     John  trembled  all  over  and  dropped  it. 

"Go  your  ways  safely,  Richard  Fontaine.  I  could 
kill  you  as  easy  as  a  baby,  but  for  Phyllis's  sake  you 
are  safe." 

"  But  I  will  make  you  fight,  sir  ;"  and  as  he  uttered 
the  threat,  he  attempted  to  push  Phyllis  aside.  Ere  one 
could  have  spoken,  she  had  faced  Richard  and  fallen, 
ller  movement  in  some  way  had  fired  the  cocked 
pistol,  and,  with  a  cry  of  horror,  he  flung  it  from 
him.  John  lifted  her.  Alreadv  the  blood  Vv'as  stain- 
ing  the  snowy  nmslin  that  covered  her  breast  But 
she  was  conscious. 


i 


I 

to 
I'- 
ll 
e 


The  Hallam  Succession. 


151 


"  Kiss  me,  John,  and  go.  It  was  an  accident,  an 
accident,  dear.     Ilemeniber  tksit." 

"  Stay  with  her,  Richard.  I  will  go  for  a  doctor, 
niy  horse  is  saddled  at  the  door ; "  and  John  rode 
away,  as  men  ride  between  life  and  death,  llicliard 
sat  in  a  stupor  of  grief,  supporting  the  white  form 
that  tried  to  smile  upon  him,  until  the  eyes  closad  in 
a  death-like  unconsciousness. 


^ 


1  s'> 


The  IIallam  Succession. 


*. 


i 


CHAPTER  YI. 

"Wlio  rodccmeth  tliy  life  from  destruction." 

"Strike — for  your  altars  and  your  fires; 
Strike — for  the  green  gruves  of  your  sires; 
God,  and  your  native  land  1  " 

THE  hours  that  followed  were  full  of  sulTei-ing  to 
the  heart.  John  came  back  with  the  doctors  lie 
summoned,  and  during  their  investigation  he  walked 
restlessly  up  and  down  the  room  in  which  the  tragedy 
had  occurred.  T^lichard  never  noticed  him.  He  sat 
in  a  chair  by  the  open  window,  with  his  head  in  his 
hands,  quite  overcome  by  grief  and  remorse.  It  was  in 
Jolin's  strong  arms  Phyllis  had  been  carried  to  her  own 
room,  and  no  one  now  disputed  his  right  to  watclii  and 
to  Avait  for  the  doctors'  verdict.  He  was  very  white  ; 
white  through  all  the  tan  of  wind  and  sun ;  and,  as  he 
paced  the  room,  he  wrung  his  hands  in  an  agony  be- 
yond speech.  Terrible,  indeed,  to  both  men  was  the 
silent  house,  with  the  faint  noises  of  Inirried  footstci)s 
and  closing  doors  up  stairs !  "What  a  mockery  seemed 
the  cool,  clear  sunshine  outside  I  What  a  stnmge 
sadness  there  was  in  the  call  of  the  crickets,  and  tlie 
faint  blooms  of  the  last  few  flowers !  There  are 
scenes  and  sounds  which,  as   backgrounds  to    great 


■r- 


The  II  all  am  Successiox. 


153 


events  ill  life,  photogra])li  themselves  in  their  small 
est  details  upon  the  mind.  In  the  midst  of  his  dis- 
tress John  could  not  help  noticing  the  pattern  of  the 
^vall-paper,  and  the  rustling  of  the  dropping  leaves 
and  nuts  in  the  garden. 

He  pitied  Eichard ;  for,  even  in  the  depth  of  his 
own  sorrow,  he  perceived  a  grief  he  could  not  touch 
— the  anguish  of  a  remorse  which  might  have  no  eiid 
in  this  life.  As  the  doctors  came  down  stairs  John 
went  to  meet  them,  for  even  a  minute's  reprieve  from 
his  torturing  anxiety  was  worth  going  for.  The  fore- 
most made  a  slight  movement,  a  motion  of  the  lips 
and  eyes  which  somehow  conveyed  a  hope,  and  when 
he  heard  the  words,  "  She  inay  recover,"  he  hastened 
back  to  Eichard,  and  said,  "  There  is  a  hope  for  her, 
and  for  us.     God  forgive  us  I" 

Eichard  never  answered  a  word,  and  John  wan- 
dered for  hours  upon  the  beach,  gazing  at  the  gray 
melancholy  sea,  and  trying  to  understand  how  far  he 
had  been  to  blame.  Perhaps  it  is  in  the  want  of  pity 
that  the  real  infernal  of  Satan  consists  ;  for  whenever 
he  sees  us  overwdielmed  with  sorrow,  then  he  casts 
into  our  throbbing  heart  his  fiercest  weapons.  Doubt, 
anguish,  and  prostration  of  hope,  worse  than  death, 
assailed  him.  He  tried  to  pray,  but  felt  as  if  his 
cries  were  uttered  to  an  inexorable  silence. 

As  for  Eichard,  he  was  so  mentally  stunned  that  it 
was  not  until  he  had  been  taken  to  Phyllis,  and  she 
had  wdiispered,   ''  I  shall  be  better  soon,  Eichard," 


151 


The  II  all  am  Succession. 


K    • 


J  '7 


that  a  saving  reaction  could  bo  induced.  Then  the 
abanilon  of  ids  grief  was  terrible;  then  ho  felt  some- 
thing of  tiiat  remorse  for  sin  which  needs  no  mate- 
rial Hery  adjunct  to  make  a  hell  for  tiie  soul.  The 
Bishop  watched  him  with  intinite  pity,  but  for  several 
days  offered  him  no  consolation,  lie  thought  it  well 
he  should  sorrow ;  he  wished  him  to  know  fully  that 
humiliation  which  Jesus  exalts,  that  wretchcdnes'3 
which  he  consoles,  that  darkness  which  he  lightens. 

So,  whe^  lie  heard  him  one  night,  muttering  as  he 
walked  gloomily  up  and  down,  "  O  that  I  could 
forget !  O  tiiat  I  could  forget ! "  he  answered,  "  Not 
so,  son  B-ichard.  Can  you  escape  eternity  by  forget- 
ting it  ?  And  even  for  this  life  to  forget  is  a  kind 
of  moral  forfeiture,  a  treason  against  your  own  soul. 
Foi'get  nothing,  caiTy  every  thii(g  about  yourself  to 
God  —  yopr  Wv.a,iiness,  your  regrets,   and  your   de- 


•9? 


m 


sires 

"  How  can  tlie  liifinite  God  heed  my  pitiful  regrets 
and  desires  ? " 

"  Because  he  loves  men  individually  ;  he  deals  with 
them  soul  by  soul  You,  Hichard  Fontaine,  you, 
your  very  self,  must  go  to  him.  You  are  not  only  a 
sinner  in  the  general  mass,  but  a  particular  sinner  un- 
der your  own  name  and  in  your  i)ec'.il  person.  So, 
then,  for  j^ou  he  has  a  special  pardon.  He  has  the 
special  liolp  you  need ;  the  very  word  of  grace,  that 
your  soul,  and  yours  only,  may  be  able  to  under- 
stand." 


■'■!«<«* 


The  IIalf.am  kSuccession. 


155 


"O  that  (lod  would  pity  me  !  " 

"  You  belong  to  the  God  of  compassions.  Ho  re- 
sists the  proud,  but  he  conies  to  abide  with  the  broken 
in  spirit." 

"If  I  was  only  sure  Phyllis  would  recover!" 

"And  if  not r' 

"Then  1  have  no  hope  for  this  life  or  the  other." 

"  God  will  do  what  scenieth  good  to  him." 

"I  do  not  understand — God  seems  so  indilfereut  to 
my  cries." 

"  My  son,  God's  indifference  does  not  exist ;  and  if 
to  comprehend  the  cross  of  Christ,  you  must  suffer  to 
extremity,  I  would  not  spare  you,  Richard ;  though 
I  love  yon.  There  are  four  words  that  you  can  say, 
whicii  will  shake  the  gates  of  heaven  ;  which  will  make 
the  Father  meet  you,  and  the  elder  Brother  welcome 
you,  and  the  angels  sing  for  joy.  Desolate  souls,  full 
of  anguish,  and  yet  full  of  hope,  have  comprehended 
them  :  Have  trier cy  upon  Die  !  " 

But  the  soul  is  a  great  mystery.  IIow  often  is  it 
called,  and  will  not  answer.  llichard  for  many 
weeks  could  neither  believe,  nor  yet  ardently  desire. 
The  hour  in  whicli  he  heard  that  Phyllis  was  out  of 
danger  was  the  hour  of  his  spiritual  deliverance. 
Then  a  speechless,  overwhelming  gratitude  took  pos- 
session of  him.  He  went  into  his  room,  and,  amid 
tears  and  broken  prayers  of  thankfulness,  his  heart 
melted.  A  wondrous  revelation  came  to  him,  the 
revelation  of  a  love  greater  than  his  sin.     He  was  lost 


r?5^ 


156 


The  Hallam  Succession. 


;   : 


in  its  rapture,  and  arose  witli  the  sacred,  secret  sign 
of  the  eternal  Father  in  his  soul. 

Phyllis  saw  the  change  as  soon  as  he  knelt  down 
by  her  side,  for  his  whole  countenance  was  altered. 
She  drew  near  to  him,  and  kissed  iiim.  It  was  after 
Cliristmas,  and  the  days  bleak  and  cold ;  but  a  great 
lire  of  cedar  logs  burned  in  the  grate,  and  Phyllis 
had  been  lifted  to  a  lounge  near  it.  She  was  whiter 
than  the  pillow  on  which  she  lay,  white  with  that 
pallor  of  death  which  the  shadowy  valley  leaves. 
But  O,  what  a  joy  it  was  to  see  her  there  once  more, 
to  feel  that  she  was  coming  back,  though  as  one  from 
the  grave,  to  life  again ! 

After  half  an  hour's  happy  talk  he  walked  to  the 
window  and  looked  out.  It  faced  the  garden  and  the 
beach.  The  trees  were  now  bare,  and  through  their 
interlacini.»:  branches  he  could  see  the  waters  of  the 
gulf.  As  he  stood  watchin^^  them,  a  figure  came  in 
sight.  ]Ie  knew  well  the  tall  erect  form,  the  rapid 
walk,  the  pause  at  the  gJite,  the  eager  look  toward 
the  house.  lie  had  seen  it  day  after  day  for  weeks, 
and  he  knew  that,  however  cold  the  wind  or  heavy 
the  rain,  it  would  keep  its  watch,  until  Harriet  went 
to  the  gate  with  a  word  of  conrfort. 

Suddenly  a  thought  came  into  Kichard's  heart. 
lie  left  Phyllis,  put  on  his  hat,  and  walked  rapidly 
down  to  the  gate.  John  was  about  fifty  yards  away, 
and  he  went  to  meet  him.  John  saw  him  coming 
and  walked  steadily  forward,     lie  c\pe(;ted  unkind 


The  IIallam  Successiox. 


15: 


words,  and  was  therefore  amazed  when  Ricliard  put 
out  his  hand,  and  said,  "  John,  forgive  nie." 

"  Willi  all  my  heart,  Eichard."  The  tears  were  in 
his  ejes,  his  brown  face  fhished  scarlet  with  emotion. 
He  held  Ilichard's  hand  lirmly,  and  said,  "  I  beg  your 
pardon  also,  Richard." 

"  Will  you  come  in  and  see  Phyllis?" 
"Do  you  really  mean  such  a  kindness? " 
"  I  do,  indeed  ;  if  Phyllis  is  able  to  see  you.     Let 
us  go  and  ask." 

Harriet  Avas  idling  about  the  parlor,  dusting  the 
already  dusted  furniture  as  they  entered.  The  face 
was  as  impassive  as  a  bronze  statue.  "Go  and  ask 
Miss  Phyllis,  Harriet,  if  she  is  able  to  see  Mr.  Mil- 
lard." 

In  a  minute  she  was  by  Phyllis's  side.  "Miss 
Phill,  honey.  Miss  Phill,  dar's  a  miracle  down  stairs, 
notliin'  at  all  less.  Mass'r  Richard  and  Mass'r  John 
sittin'  together  like  two  lambs,  and  Mass'r  Richai-d 
says,  '  Can  you  see  Mass'r  John  a  few  minutes? '  " 

The  poetic  Greek  said,  "  Destiny  loves  surprises," 
and  our  Christian  forefathers  called  all  unexpected 
pleasures  and  profits,  "  Godsends."  I  think  such 
"  Godsends  "  come  often  to  those  who  ask  them.  At 
any  rate,  Phyllis  was  asking  this  very  favor,  and  even 
while  the  supplication  was  on  her  lips  it  was  granted 
her.  It  was  Richard,  too,  who  brought  John  to  her 
side;  and  he  clasped  their  hands  in  his,  and  then 
went  away  and  left  them  together.      The  solemn  ten- 


s 


158 


The  II  all  am  Succession. 


ilVi 


\  'E 


1.    ''■ 


derness  of  such  a  meeting  needed  but  few  words.  John 
thought  life  could  hardly  give  him  again  moments  so 
holy  and  so  sweet.  O,  how  precious  are  these  sudden 
unfoldin<>:s  of  lovinnj-kindness !  These  Godsends  of 
infinite  love!  He  had  not  dared  to  expect  any  thing 
for  himself ;  he  had  only  asked  for  the  life  of  Phyl- 
lis, and  it  had  been  given  him  with  that  royal  com- 
passion that  adds,  "  grace  unto  favor." 

The  happy  come  back  to  life  easily ;  and  when  the 
snow-drops  were  beginning  to  peep  above  the  ground, 
Phyllis,  leaning  upon  Jolm  and  Ivichard,  stood  once 
more  under  the  blue  of  heaven,  and  after  that  her  re- 
covery was  rapid  and  certain.  The  months  of  Jan- 
uary and  February  were  peculiarly  happy  ones,  full 
of  delightful  intercourse  and  hopeful  dreams.  Of 
course  they  talked  of  the  future ;  they  knew  all  its 
uncertainties,  and  faced,  with  happy  hearts,  the  strug- 
gle tliey  might  have  together. 

At  the  termination  of  John's  last  service  he  had 
possessed  about  two  thousand  doUars,  but  this  sum 
had  been  already  much  encroached  upon,  and  he  was 
anxious  to  find  a  career  which  would  enable  him  to 
make  a  home  for  Phyllis.  There  seemed,  however, 
but  two  possible  ways  for  John  :  he  must  have  mili- 
tary service,  or  he  must  take  up  land  upon  the  front- 
ier, stock  it,  and  then  defend  it  until  he  had  won  it. 
He  had  lived  so  long  the  free  life  of  the  prairie  and 
the  woods,  that  tlio  crowds  of  cilies  and  their  occupa- 
tions almost  frightened  him.    For  theology  he  had  no 


li 


I 


The  IIallam  Succession. 


159 


•ds.  John 

jments  so 

50  sudden 

Isends  of 

iny  thing 

i 

of  Plijl- 

)yal  coni- 

wlien  the 

3  ground, 

ood  once 

at  her  re- 

. 

5  of  Jan- 

i- 

)nes,  full 

■  ^  ' 

Lins.     Of 

w  all  its 

h 

he  strug- 

3  he  had 

ihis  suju 

I  he  was 

i 

him  to 

owever, 

vc  mili- 

e  front- 

^ 

won  it. 

irie  and 

ooou  pa- 

1 

had  no 

I, 

•III 

vocation  and  no  "call."  Medicine  he  had  a  most 
decided  repugnance  to.  Law  seemed  to  him  hut  a 
meddling  in  other  people's  business  and  preilica- 
nicnts.  lie  felt  that  he  would  rather  face  a  band  of 
savaues  tlian  a  constant  invasion  of  shoppei's;  rather 
stand  behind  a  breastwork  than  behind  a  desk  and 
le(l:^er.  The  planter's  life  was  too  indolent,  too  full 
of  small  cares  and  anxieties;  his  whole  crop  might  be 
ruined  by  an  army  of  worms  that  he  could  not  tight. 
But  on  the  frontier,  if  there  was  loss  or  danger,  he 
could  defy  it  or  punish  it. 

He  talked  to  Phyllis  of  the  healthy,  happy  life  of 
the  ])raii'ies;  of  the  joy  of  encamping  in  forests,  and 
seeing  the  sun  rise  between  the  leaves ;  of  wan- 
dering without  hinderance  ;  of  being  satisfied  with  lit- 
tle. It  was  these  sweet,  unplanted  places  of  earth, 
these  grand  wastes  of  green,  unpartitioned  off  into 
squares  of  mine  and  thine,  that  attracted  John  and 
charmed  Phyllis:  for  her  heart  was  with  his.  She 
thought  of  the  little  home  that  was  to  have  a  look 
southward  and  eastwnrd,  and  which  she  was  to  make 
beautiful ;  and  no  grand  dame,  with  the  prospect  of 
roj-al  favor  and  court  splendor,  was  ever  half  so  gl;id 
in  her  future  as  Phyllis  in  her  dream  of  a  simple  and 
busy  Arcadia.  It  cannot  be  said  that  Richard  shared 
her  enthusiasm.  In  his  heart  lie  thoujz-ht  Phvllis 
"too  good"  for  such  a  life,  and  to  the  Bishop  he 
once  permitted  himself  a  little  lament  on  the  subj(!ct. 

"•But,  son  Bichard,"  was  the  answer,  "what  kind 
11 


P-^ 


:l'-    \"i 


i  « 


;  li 


\i: 


•i  II 


1(50 


The  IIallam  Succession. 


of  men  build  np  new  States  and  lead  the  van  of  the 
onward  march?  Are  they  not  the  heroes  of  tlie  re- 
public? brave  men  of  large  souls  and  large  views, 
that  go  naturally  to  the  front  because  they  are  too 
big  for  the  ranks?" 

''I  suppose  so." 

"  And,  depend  upon  it,  the  noblest  women  in  the 
country  will  love  them  and  go  with  them.  Blessings 
upon  those  women  who  go  into  the  untrampled 
lands,  and  serve  God  and  suckle  heroes !  We  forget 
them  too  often.  The  Pilgrim  Mothers  are  as  grand  as 
the  Filgriiii  Fathers,  every  whit.  The  men,  riiie  in. 
hand,  take  possession  of  the  wilderness ;  the  women 
make  it  blossom  like  the  rose.  No  woman  is  too  fair, 
or  bright,  or  clever,  or  good  to  be  a  pioneer's  wife. 
If  John  Millard  had  been  willing  to  measure  out  dry 
goods,  or  collect  debts,  I  should  have  had  serious 
doubts  about  marrying  Phyllis  to  him.  If  Phyllis  had 
been  unwilling  to  follow  John  to  the  frontier,  I  should 
have  known  that  she  was  not  worthy  of  John." 

t.' 

Three  dnys  after  this  conversation  John  went  to 
New  Orleans  with  tlie  Bishop.  The  Bishop  was  upon 
Church  business.  John  had  heard  of  the  colony  which 
had  gone  with  Stephen  Austin  to  Texas,  and  wished 
to  make  further  inquiries ;  for  at  this  time  there 
were  three  words  upon  every  lip — Santa  Anna, 
Texas,  and  Houston.  At  the  beginning  of  John's 
visit  there  had  been  present  in  his  mind  an  intention 
of    li-oiuijc  from  New  Orleans  to  Texas  at  its  close. 


The  Hallam  Succession. 


161 


\ 


ntion 
jlose. 


He  was  by  no  means  certain  that  he  would  stay  there, 
for  he  mistrusted  a  Mexican,  and  was  neither  dis- 
posed to  fight  under  their  orders,  nor  to  hold  land 
upon  their  title.  But  he  had  heard  of  the  wonderful 
beauty  of  the  country,  of  its  enchanting  atmosphere, 
and  of  the  j)lenty  which  had  given  it  its  ha])py 
name ;  and  there  had  been  roused  in  him  a  vague 
curiosity,  which  he  was  not  averse  to  gratify,  espe- 
cially as  the  sail  was  short  and  pleasant. 

He  left  the  Bishop  on  Canal  Street,  and  went  to 
the  St.  Charles  Hotel.  As  he  approached  it  he  saw  a 
crowd  of  men  upon  the  wide  steps  and  the  piazza. 
They  were  talking  in  an  excited  manner,  and  were 
evidently  under  strong  emotion.  One  of  them  was 
standing  upon  a  chair,  reading  aloud  a  paper.  It 
was  the  noble  appeal  of  Sam  Houston,  "in  the  holy 
names  of  Humanity  and  Liberty,"  for  help.  Travis 
and  his  brave  little  band  had  fallen,  like  heroes,  every 
soul  of  them  at  his  post,  in  the  Alamo.  Fannin  and 
his  live  hundred  had  just  been  massacred  in  cold 
blood,  and  in  defiance  of  every  law  of  warfare  and 
humanity;  and  between  the  Anglo-Americans  and  a 
brutal,  slaughtering  army  there  was  only  Houston  and 
a  few  hundred  desperate  men.  The  New  Orleans 
Greys  and  a  company  of  young  Southern  gentlemen 
from  Mobile  had  just  sailed.  Every  man's  heart  was 
on  fire  for  this  young  republic  of  Texas.  Her  shield 
was  scarcely  one  month  old,  and  yet  it  had  been 
bathed    in   the   blood   of   a    thousand    martyrs   for 


M 


: 


m  i-i 


il 


F'( 


I 


Si" 

■  1    il' 

1 1/ 


Uf  i- 

^1 

i  1!    j       ^1 

i        ^: 

Hi          1 

PH  1^''  '"-M 

1(12 


The  Hall  am  Succession. 


frcoduin,  and  riddled  with  the  bullets  of  an  alien 
foe. 

Julin  caught  fire  as  spirit  catches  fire.  His  blood 
boiled  as  he  listened,  his  lingers  were  handling  his 
weapons,  lie  must  see  Phyllis  and  go.  That  little 
band  of  eight  hundred  Americans  gathered  round 
Sam  Houston,  and  defying  Santa  Anna  to  enslave 
them,  filled  his  mind.  He  could  see  them  retreating 
across  the  country,  always  interposing  themselves  be- 
tween their  famiHes  and  the  foe ;  hasting  toward  the 
settlements  on  the  Trinity  Eiver,  carrying  their 
wounded  and  children  as  best  they  could.  Every 
man,  women,  and  child  called  him;  and  he  cast  his 
lot  in  with  theirs,  never  caring  what  woe  or  weal  it 
might  bring  him. 

The  Bishop  had  promised  to  call  at  the  hotel  for 
him  about  four  o'clock.  John  went  no  farther.  He 
sat  there  all  day  talking  over  the  circumstances  of 
Texas.  Xor  could  the  Bishop  resist  the  enthusiasm. 
In  fact,  the  condition  of  the  Texans  touched  him  on 
its  religious  side  very  keenly.  For  the  fight  was 
quite  as  much  a  fight  for  religious  f;S  for  political 
freedom.  Never  in  old  Spain  itself  had  priestcraft 
wielded  r.  greater  power  than  the  Twoman  priesthood 
in  Texas.  They  hated  and  feared  an  emigration  of 
Americans,  for  they  knew  them  to  be  men  opposed 
to  tyranny  of  all  kinds,  men  who  thought  for  them- 
selves, and  who  would  not  be  dictated  to  by  monks 
and  priests.     It  was,  without  doubt,  the  clerical  ele- 


The  JIam-am  SuccEdsioN. 


163 


i 


>^ 


meiit  which  had  urged  on  the  military  element  to  the 
massacre  at  the  Alamo  and  at  Goliad.  The  Bishop 
was  with  his  countrymen,  heart  and  soul.  Ko  man's 
eje  flashed  with  a  nobler  anger  than  his.  "God  de- 
fend the  brave  fellows!"  he  said,  fervently. 
"  I  shall  start  for  Texas  to-morrow,"  said  John. 
"  I  don't  see  how  you  can  help  it,  John.  1  wish  I. 
could  go  with  you." 

"If  you  hadn't  been  a  preacher,  you  would  have 
made  a  grand  soldier,  father." 

"  John,  every  good  preacher  would  make  a  good 
solciler.  I  have  been  lighting  under  a  grand  Captain 
for  forty  years.  And  I  do  acknowledge  that  the 
spirit  of  my  forefathers  is  in  me.  Thev  fought  with 
Balfour  at  Drumclog,  and  with  Cromwell  at  Dunbar. 
I  would  reason  with  the  Lord's  enemies,  surely,  John, 
I  would  reason  with  them ;  but  if  they  would  not 
listen  to  reason,  and  took  advantage  of  mercy  and 
forbearance,  I  would  give  them  the  sword  of  Gideon 
and  of  Cromwell,  and  the  rifles  of  such  men  as  are 
with  Houston — men  born  under  a  free  government 
and  baptized  in  a  free  faith." 

Itichard  and  Phyllis  were  standing  at  the  garden 
gate,  watching  for  their  arrival;  and  before  either  of 
them  spoke,  Phyllis  divined  that  something  unusual 
was  occupying  their  minds.  "  What  is  the  matter  ?  " 
she  asked;  "you  two  look  as  if  you  had  been  in  a 
fight,  and  won  a  victory." 

"  We  will  take  the  wDnh  as  a  good  propliecv,"  an- 


m 


m 


i* 


' 


d 


11 


'i^, 


K 


l!Mi 


4.< 


11 


1G4 


The  IIallam  Succession. 


swerod  tlie  Bishop.  "  John  is  i^oing  to  a  noble  war- 
fare, and,  I  am  sure,  to  a  victorious  one.  Give  us  a 
cup  of  tea,  Phyllis,  and  we  will  tell  you  all  about  it." 

John  did  not  need  to  say  a  word.  lie  sat  at  Phyllis's 
side,  and  the  Bishop  painted  the  struggling  little  re- 
public in  words  that  melted  and  thrilled  every  heart. 

"  When  do  you  go,  John  ? "  asked  Phyllis. 

"  To-morrow." 

And  she  leaned  toward  him,  and  kissed  him — a  kiss 
of  consecration,  of  love  and  approval  and  sympathy. 

Richard's  pale  face  was  also  Hushed  and  eager,  his 
black  eyes  glowing  like  live  coals.  "  I  will  go  with 
John,"  he  said  ;  "  Texas  is  my  neighbor.  It  is  a  fight 
for  Protestant  freedom,  at  my  own  door.  I  am  not 
going  to  be  denied." 

"  Your  duty  is  at  home,  Kichard.  You  can  help 
with  your  prayers  and  purse.  You  could  not  leave 
your  plantation  now  without  serious  loss,  and  you 
have  numy  to  think  for  besides  yourself." 

Of  the  final  success  of  the  Texans  no  one  doubted. 
Their  cry  for  help  had  been  answered  from  the  New 
England  hills  and  all  down  the  valley  df  the  Missis- 
sippi, and  along  tlie  shores  of  the  (Julf  of  Mexico 
and  the  coasts  of  Florida.  In  fact,  the  first  settlers 
of  Texas  ha 'a  been  young  men  from  the  oldest  north- 
ern colonies.  Mexico  had  cast  longing  looks  toward 
those  six  vigorous  States  which  had  grown  into  power 
on  the  cold,  barren  hills  of  New  England.  She  be- 
lieved that  if  she  could  induce  some  of  their  popula 


The  11  all  am  Succession. 


1G5 


>1 


tion  to  settle  witliin  Mexican  limits,  she  could  win 
from  tliem  the  secret  of  their  success.     So  a  hand  of 
hardy,  working  youths,  trained  in  the  district  schools 
of  Xew  England  and  New  York,  accepted  the  pledges 
of  gain  and  protection  she  offered  them,  and,  with 
Stephen  F.  Austin  at  their  head,  went  to  the  beauti- 
ful land  of  Western  Texas.     They  had  no  thought  of 
empire ;  they  were  cultivators  of  the  soil ;  but  they 
curried  with  them  that  intelligent  love  of  freedom 
and  that  hatred  of  priestly  tyranny  which  the  Spanish 
Jiature  has  never  understood,  and  has  always  feared. 

Yery  soon  the  rapidly-increasing  number  of  Amer- 
ican colonists  frightened  the  natives,  who  soon  began 
to  oppress  the  new-comers.  The  Eoman  Catholic 
priesthood  were  also  bitterly  opposed  to  this  new  Prot- 
estant element;  and,  by  tiieir  advice,  oppressive  taxa- 
tion of  every  kind  was  practiced,  especially  the  extor- 
tion of  money  for  titles  to  land  which  had  been  guar- 
anteed  to  the  colonists  by  the  Mexican  government. 
Austin  went  to  :Mexico  to  remonstrate.  lie  was 
thrown  into  a  filthy  dungeon,  where  for  many  a 
month  he  never  saw  a  ray  of  light,  nor  even  Uie 
hand  that  fed  him. 

In  the  meantime  Santa  Anna  had  made  himself 
Dictator  of  Mexico,  and  one  of  his  first  acts  regard- 
ing Texas  was  to  demand  the  surrender  of  alt  the 
private  arms  of  the  settlers.  The  order  was  resisted 
as  soon  as  uttered.  Obedience  to  it  meant  certain 
death   in   one   form  or  other.      For  the  Americans 


»5t7 


10(3 


TiiK    IIai,i,am   SrcOKSSIUN. 


:m 


were  anioiiu^  an  alien  people,  In  a  country  overrun  by 
fourteen  diJl'erent  tribes  of  Jtulians;  some  of  them, 
as  the  Comanelies,  Apaehes,  and  Li])ans,  peciiharly 
lieree  and  erueL  IJesides,  many  I'liuulies  were  de- 
jtendent  upon  the  pime  and  birds  which  tliey  shot 
tor  daily  I'ood.  I'o  be  without  their  I'illcs  meant 
starvation.     They  refused  to  surrender  them. 

At  Gonzales  the  peoi)le  of  Dewitt's  Colouv  had  a 
little  fonr-})oundcr,  \yhich  they  used  to  protect  them- 
selves from  the  Indians.  C'olonel  U^i^artchea,  a  JVEex- 
ican,  was  sent  to  take  it  away  from  them.  Kvery 
colonist  hastened  to  its  rescue.  It  was  retaken,  and 
the  Mexicans  irsued  to  Bexar.  Just  at  this  time 
Austin  ri  turned  from  Ids  Mexican  dnuijeon.  Xo 
hearing  had  been  2;ranted  him.  Every  man  wns  now 
well  aware  that  Mexico  intended  to  enslave  them, 
and  they  rose  for  their  rights  and  freedom.  The 
land  they  ^vere  on  they  had  bonght  with  their  labor 
or  with  their  gold  ;  and  how  conld  they  be  expected 
to  lay  down  their  riiies,  surroun<led  by  an  armed  hos- 
tile race,  by  a  bitter  and  powerfid  ])ricsthood,  and  by 
tribes  of  Indians,  some  of  whom  were  cannibals? 
They  wonld  hardl}''  have  been  the  sons  of  the  men 
who  defied  Iving  John,  Charles  L,  and  CJeorge  III., 
if  they  had. 

Then  came  an  invadinar  army  with  the  order  ''to 
lay  waste  the  American  colonies,  and  slaughter  all 
their  inhabitants."  And  the  cry  from  these  Texan 
colonists  touched  every  State  in  the  Union.     There 


m-s 


■■ 


'J'in:   IIai^lam  Si ccKfesiuN. 


\c,: 


were  cords  of  huuschoUl  l(»vc  hiiid.ii^^  tliciii  to  a 
tliou.sjuid  lioiiu's  in  older  coloiiirs;  and  tlu-i-e  was, 
also,  ill  the  cry  that  passionate  [)roti'station  a-uinst 
injnstic{!  and  slaveiy  ^\■]li(■ll  noble  Ik  arts  can  never 
hear  unnjoved,  and  whieli  makes  all  men  hrothers. 

Tills  \vas  how  njatters  stood  when  .loim  Millard 
lieard  and  answered  the  call  of  Texas.  And  that 
lught  J'lullis  learned  one  of  love's  hardest  lessons; 
she  saM',  with  a  pang  of  fear  and  amazement,  that  in 
a  man's  heart  love  is  not  the  passion  which  swallows 
up  all  the  rest.  Humanity,  liberty,  that  strange  sympa- 
thy which  one  brave  man  has  for  iinother,  ruled  John 
absolntely.  She  mingled  witli  all  these  feelings,  and 
doubtless  lie  lovec!  her  the  better  for  them;  but  she 
felt  it,  at  iirst,  a  trille  hard  to  share  her  empire.  Of 
course,  wlien  she  thought  of  the  position,  she  ac- 
knowledged the  beauty  and  fitness  of  it;  but,  in  spite 
of  ''  beauty  and  h*tness,"  M-ouien  suffer  a  little.  Their 
victory  is,  that  they  hide  tlie  suffering  under  smiles 
and  bravo  words,  that  they  resolutely  put  away  all 
small  and  selfish  feelings,  and  believe  that  they  would 
not  he  loved  so  well,  if  honor  and  virtue  and  valor 
were  not  loved  more. 

Still  it  was  a  very  happy  evening.  Eichard  and 
John  were  at  their  best ;  the  Bishop  full  of  a  sublime 
enthusiasm  ;  and  they  lifted  Phyllis  with  them.  And 
O,  it  is  good  to  sometimes  get  above  our  own  high- 
water  mark!  to  live  for  an  hour  with  our  best  ideas! 
to   make  little  of  facts,  to  take   i)ossession   of  our- 


1(38 


Tim:  IIallam  Sl'cc::ssion. 


i  .   i 


selves,  and  walk  as  conquerors!  Thus,  in  Bonie 
blessed  intervals  wo  have  been  poets  and  philoso- 
phers. AVe  have  spread  liberty,  and  l)rok(ii  the 
chains  of  sin,  and  seen  family  life  elevated,  and  the 
world  rcijjenerated.  Thaidv  (Jod  for  such  hours  !  for 
though  they  were  spent  among  ideals,  they  belong  to 
us  henceforth,  and  are  golden  threads  between  this 
life  and  a  higlier  one. 

"  Whon  a  fl.isli  of  tnitli  liatli  found  thoe, 

Whore  thy  foot  in  (iarkiios.-!  tnni, 
Wlieii  tliick  clouds  dispart  around  thee, 

And  thou  standout  near  to  (Jod. 
When  a  noble  soul  comes  i  ear  thee, 

In  whom  kindred  virtues  dwell, 
That  from  faithless  doul)ts  can  clear  thee, 

And  with  strengthening  love  compel; 
0  these  are  moments,  rare  fair  moments ; 

Sing  and  shout,  and  use  them  well !  " 

— Pkok.  Blackie. 

Kicluird  was  the  first  to  remend)er  how  many  Httle 
matters  of  importance  were  to  be  attended  to.  The 
Bishop  sighed,  and  looked  at  the  three  young  faces 
around  him.  Perhaps  the  same  thought  was  in  every 
heart,  though  no  one  liked  to  utter  it.  A  kind  of 
chill,  the  natural  reaction  of  extreme  enthusiasm  was 
about  to  fall  upon  them.  Phyllis  rose.  "  Let  us  say 
'  good-night,'  now,"  she  said  ;  "  it  is  so  easy  to  put  it 
off  until  we  are  too  tired  to  say  it  bravely." 

"Go  to  the  piano,  Phyllis.  We  will  say  it  in 
song ; "  and  the  Bishop  lifted  a  h^^mn  book,  opened 
it,  and  pointed  out  the  hymn  to  Kichard  and  John. 


M 


H  ^ 


».  ..      \ 


The  11  all  am  Succeshion. 


lOJ 


little 
The 
'aces 
:ery 

id  of 
was 
say 

■it  it 

in 

Ined 
llui. 


\  t. 


"Come,  wo  will  have    a  soldier's  liyinn,  two  of  as 
grand  verses  as  Charles  Wesley  ever  wrote: 

•'Captain  of  Israel's  host,  and  (Jiiitlo 

Of  all  who  seek  tlic  hiiul  above, 
Beneath  tliy  shadow  we  ul)iik', 

The  cloud  of  thy  protecting  love : 
Our  strength  thy  grace,  our  rule  thy  word, 
Our  end  the  glory  of  the  Lord. 

*'By  tliy  unerring  S[)iiit  led, 

We  shall  not  in  the  desert  stray; 
We  shall  not  full  direction  need; 

Nor  mis.s  our  providential  way ; 
As  far  from  danj^or  as  from  fear, 
While  love,  almighty  love,  is  near." 

The  Bishop  and  Richard  went  with  J(jhn  to  New 
Orleans  in  the  niornin*]^.  Phyllis  was  ^lad  to  be 
alone.  She  had  tried  to  send  her  lover  away  cheer- 
fully ;  but  there  is  always  the  afterward.  The  "  after- 
ward" to  Phyllis  was  an  extreme  sadness  that  was 
almost  lethargy.  Many  cnishcd  souls  have  these  fits 
of  somnolent  depression ;  and  it  does  no  ii;ood  either 
to  reproach  them,  or  to  point  out  that  physical  infirm- 
ity is  the  cause.  They  know  what  the  sorrowful 
sleep  of  the  apostles  in  the  i»"arden  of  Olivet  was, 
and  pity  theuL  Phyllis  wept  slow,  heavy  tears  un- 
til she  fell  into  a  deep  slumber,  and  she  did  not 
awaken  nntil  Harriet  was  spreading  the  cloth  upon  a 
small  table  for  her  lunch. 

"  Dar,  Miss  Phill !  I'se  gwine  to  bring  you  some 
fried  chicken  and  some  almond  puddin',  and  a  cup  of 


w^ 


f  1 


m 


\i\ 


ii:!isi  !■ 


fell':) 


i  '-'. 


nil 


i 


t    ■  I 


i 


I  \ 


Ilv1:rii)        ■ 

Hi.!    i 


m  : 

I  if 

P!  1 

ill  ' 


170 


The  IIallam  Succession. 


de  strongest  coffee  1  kin  make.  Hungry  sorrow  is 
mighty  bad  to  bear,  lioney!" 

"  Has  Master  Kicliard  cotne  back  ? " 

"  Not  lie,  Miss  Phill.  lie's  not  a-gwine  to  come  back 
till  de  black  night  drive  him,  ef  there's  any  thing 
strange  'gwine  on  in  de  city ;  dat's  de  way  wid  all 
men— aint  none  of  dem  worth  frettin'  'bout." 

"  Don't  say  that,  Harriet." 

"  Aint,  Miss  Phill ;  I'se  bound  to  say  it.  Look  at 
Mass'r  John  !  gwine  off  all  in  a  moment  like  ;  mighty 
cur'ous  perceeding — mighty  cur'ous  !  " 

''  He  has  gone  to  fight  in  a  grand  cause." 

"  Dat's  jist  what  dey  all  say.  Let  any  one  beat  a 
drum  a  thousand  miles  off,  and  dey's  all  on  de  ramp- 
age to  follow  it." 

"  The  Bishop  thought  Master  John  right  to  go.'* 

"  Bless  your  heart,  Miss  Phill !  De  Bishop  !  De 
Bishop !  He  don't  know  no  more  'an  a  baby  'bout  dis 
world !  You  should  ha'  seen  de  way  he  take  up  and 
put  down  Mass'r  John's  rifle.  Mighty  onwillin'  he 
was  to  put  it  down — kind  ob  slow  like.  I  wouldn't 
trust  de  Bishop  wid  no  rifle  ef  dar  was  any  fightin' 
gwine  on  'bout  wliar  he  was.  De  Bishop !  He's  jist 
de  same  as  all  de  rest,  ]\[iss  Phill.  Dar,  honey  !  here's 
de  chicken  and  de  coffee;  don't  you  spile  your  ap- 
])etite  frettin'  'bout  any  of  dem." 

"  I  wish  Master  Pichard  was  home." 

"  No  wonder ;  for  dar  isn't  a  mite  ob  certainty 
'bout  his  'tentions.     He  jist  as  like  to  go  off  wid  a  lot 


.«  'i 


The  IIallam  Successkjn. 


171 


I 


ob  soldiers  as  any  of  de  bojs,  only  lie's  so  mii^ditv 
keerfiil  ol)  yon,  Miss  Pliill ;  mid  den  he's  'spectiii'  a 
letter ;  for  de  last  words  lie  say  to  iiie  was,  '  Take 
care  ob  de  mail,  Harriet.'  De  letter  eonie,  too.  Moke 
didn't  want  to  £:^ib  it  np,  but  I  'sisted  upon  it.  Moke 
is  kind  ob  plottin'  in  his  temper.  lie  thought 
Mass'r  Eichard  would  gib  him  a  quarter,  mobbe  a 
half-dollar." 

"  Did  you  think  so,  also,  Harriet  ? " 
"Dem's  de  house  perquisites,  Miss  PliiU.     Moke 
has  nothin'  't  all  to  do  wid  de  house  perquisites." 
"  Moke  has  been  sick,  has  he  not  ? " 
"  Had  de  fever,  he  says." 

"  Is  he  not  one  of  your  classmates  ?  I  think  I  have 
heard  you  say  he  was  'a  powerful  member  '  of  Uncle 
Isaac's  Class." 

"  'Chir  to  gracious.  Miss  Phill,  I  forgot  dat.     Brud- 
der  Moke  kin  liab  de  letter  and  de  perquisite." 
"  I  was  sure  you  would  feel  that  way,  Harriet." 
"I'd  rather  hab  you  look  at  me  dat  shinin'  kind  ob 
way  dan  hab  a  dollar;   dat  I  would,  Miss  Phill." 

Moke  got  the  perquisite  and  Richard  got  his  letter, 
but  it  did  not  seem  to  give  him  much  pleasure. 
Phylh's  noticed  that  after  reading  it  he  was  unhappy 
and  troubled.  He  took  an  hour's  promenade  on  the 
piazza,  and  then  sat  down  beside  her.  "  Phyllis,"  he 
said,  "  we  have  both  been  unfortunate  in  our  love. 
You  stooped  too  low,  and  I  looked  too  hi<rh.  John 
has  not  money  enough  ;  Elizabeth  has  too  much." 


]■; 


h-'  ' 


0' 


U-"" 


m 

■■ '   I 


;!;■:■ 


I'  I 


!; 


ii  >i 


';    f 


I 


172 


The  II  all  am  Successiox. 


"  You  are  wronging  both  Elizabeth  and  John. 
"What  has  Ehzabeth  done  or  said  ? " 

''  There  is  a  cliange  in  her,  though  I  cannot  define 
it.  Her  letters  are  less  frequent ;  they  are  shorter  ; 
they  are  full  of  Antony  and  his  wild,  ambitious 
schemes.  They  keep  the  form,  but  they  lack  the 
spirit,  of  her  first  letters.'- 

"  It  is  nearly  two  years  since  you  parted." 

"  Yes." 

"  Go  and  see  her.  Absence  does  not  make  the 
heart  grow  fonder.  If  it  did,  we  should  never  forget 
the  dead.  Those  who  touch  us  move  us.  Go  and  see 
Elizabeth  again.    Women  worth  loving  want  wooing." 

"  Will  you  go  with  me  i  " 

"  Do  not  ask  me.  I  doubt  whether  I  could  bear 
the  tossing  to  and  fro  for  so  many  days,  and  I  want 
to  stav  whei'e  I  can  hear  from  John." 

There  was  much  further  talk  upon  the  subject,  but 
the  end  of  it  was  that  Richard  sailed  for  England  in 
the  early  summer,  lie  hardly  expected  to  renew  the 
enthusiasm  of  his  first  visit,  and  he  was  prepared  for 
changes;  and,  perhaps,  he  felt  tlie  changes  more  be- 
cause those  to  whom  they  had  couie  slowly  and  sep- 
arately were  hardly  conscious  of  them.  Elizabeth 
was  a  different  Avoman,  'ilthough  she  would  have  de- 
nied it.  Her  character  had  nuitured,  and  was,  perhaps, 
less  winning.  She  had  fully  accepted  the  position  of 
Leiress  of  Hallani,  and  Richard  could  feel  that  it  was 
a  controlling  influence   in  her   life.     Physically  she 


A^'k 


.11 


The  IIallam  Succession. 


173 


was  miicli  handsomer,  stately  as  a  queen,  fair  and 
radiant,  and  "  most  divinely  tall." 

She  drove  into  Leeds  to  meet  the  sta^e  which 
brought  Richard,  and  was  quite  as  demonstrative  as 
he  had  any  right  to  expect;  but  he  felt  abashed 
slightly  by  her  air  of  calm  authority.  He  forgot 
that  when  he  had  seen  her  first  she  was  in  a  com- 
paratively dependent  position,  and  that  she  was  now 
prospective  lady  of  the  manor.  It  was  quite  natural 
that  she  should  have  taken  on  a  little  dignity,  and  it 
was  not  natural  that  she  should  all  at  once  discard  it 
for  her  lover. 

The  squire,  too,  was  changed,  sadly  changed  ;  for  he 
had  had  a  fall  in  the  hunting  field,  and  had  never 
recovered  from  its  efliects.  He  limped  to  the  door 
to  meet  Richard,  and  spoke  in  his  old  hearty  way, 
but  Richard  was  pained  to  see  him,  so  pale  and 
broken. 

'"  Tliou's  welcome  beyond  ivery  thing,  Richard, " 
he  said,  warndy.  "  If  ta  lied  brought  Phyllis,  I'd  hev 
given  thee  a  double  welcome.  I'd  hev  liked  to  hev 
seen  her  bonny  face  again  afovo  T  go  t'  way  I'll  nivver 
come  back." 

"She  was   not  strong   enough   to   bear   the   jour- 


5> 


ney 

"  Yonder  shooting  was  a  bad  bit  o'  work.  Tve 
nowt  against  a  gun,  but  dash  pistols !  They're  black- 
guardly weapons  for  a  gentleman  to  carry  about ; 
'specially  where  women  are  around." 


t^ 


ii 


I 


1-' 


i-x 


The  TIallam  Stccession. 


li: 


:l  « 


''  You  are  (juite  right,  uncle.  Tliat  pistol-shot  cost 
1110  many  a  day's  heart-ache." 

"  And  t'  poor  little  lass  lied  to  sufTer,  too  !  Well, 
well,  we  thought  about  her  above  a  bit." 

Elizabeth  liad  spoken  of  company,  but  in  the  joy 
and  excitement  of  meeting  her  again,  llichard  had 
asked  no  questions  about  it.  It  proved  to  be  An- 
tony's intended  wife.  Lady  Evelyn  Darragh,  daughter 
of  an  Irish  nobleman.  Eicliard,  without  admiring 
her,  watched  her  with  interest.  She  was  tall  and 
p;ile,  with  a  transparent  arpiiline  nose  and  preternat- 
urally  large  eyes.  Her  moods  were  alternations  of 
immoderate  mirth  and  immoderate  depression.  "Slie 
expects  too  much  of  life,"  thought  Eicliard,  "  and  if 
she  is  disappointed,  she  will  proudly  turn  away  and 
silently  die."  She  liad  no  fortune,  but  Antony  was 
anibitious  for  something  more  than  mere  money. 
For  the  carrying  out  of  his  Unancial  schemes  he 
wanted  inlluence,  rank,  and  the  prestige  of  a  name. 
Tlie  Earl  of  Darragh  had  a  large  family,  and  little  to 
give  them,  and  Lady  Evelyn  having  been  selected  by 
the  promising  young  linancier,  she  was  not  permitted 
to  decline  the  liand  ho  offered  lier. 

So  it  happened  she  was  stopping  at  ILdlam,  and 
she  brought  a  change  into  the  atmosphere  of  the 
place.  The  scpiire  was  anxious,  fearful  of  his  son's 
undertakings,  and  yet  partly  proud  of  his  commercial 
and  social  recognition.  But  the  good-natured  even- 
ness  of   his   happy   teinperame  i;     v.<)s   quite   gone. 


\\\ 


The  Hallam  Succession. 


175 


Elizabetli,  too,  had  little  cares  and  hospitable  duties; 
she  was  often  busy  and  often  pre-occupied.  It  was 
necessai'v  to  h'lve  a  great  deal  of  company,  and 
l?aehard  perceived  that  among  the  nsnal  visitors  at 
llallum  he  had  more  than  one  rival.  But  in  this  re- 
spect he  had  no  fault  to  find  with  Elizabeth.  IShe 
treated  all  with  equal  regard  and  to  llichard  alone 
unbent  the  proud  sufficiency  of  her  manner.  And  yet 
he  was  unhap[)y  and  dissatisfied.  It  was  ncjt  tiie 
Elizabeth  he  had  wooed  and  dreamed  aiout.  And  lie 
did  n()t  lind  that  he  reached  any  humt-  satisfactory 
results  than  iiv.'  had  done  by  letter.  Elizabeth  could 
not  "see  her  way  clear  to  leave  her  father.'' 

"  It'  xVntony  married  ?  "  he  aisked. 

"That  would  not  alter  affairs  nmcli.  Antony 
conld  not  live  at  Ilallam.  His  business  biiids  him 
to  the  vicinitv  of  London.'" 

Tliere  was  but  one  new  hope,  and  that  was  but  a 
far  probability.  Antony  had  I'cquested  permission  to 
repay,  as  soon  as  he  was  able,  the  £50,000,  und  resume 
his  right  as  heir  of  Ilallam.  When  lie  was  able  to 
do  this  Elizal)etli  would  be  freed  from  the  duties 
which  specially  pertained  to  the  property.  As  to 
her  father's  claim  upon  her,  that  could  only  end  with 
his  or  her  own  life.  IS'ot  even  if  Antony's  wife  wn:- 
mistress  of  Ilallam  would  she  leave  the  squire,  if  h^ 
wished  or  needed  her  love. 

And  Elizabeth  was  rather  hurt  that  Eicliard  coMld 

not  see  the  conditions  as  reasonable  a  service  as  sh"  did. 
12 


r 


h  i 


i 


III. 


in 
111 


■;i  ii 


wi 


li. 


176 


The  Halla>    Stccession. 


*'  Yon  may  trust  me,"  she  said,  "  for  ten,  for  twenty 
years  ;  is  not  that  enough  ?" 

"  No,  it  is  not  enough ,"  he  answered,  warndy.  "  I 
want  yon  now.  If  you  loved  me,  you  would  leave  all 
and  come  with  me.  That  is  how  Phyllis  loves  John 
Millard." 

"I  think  you  are  mistaken.  If  you  were  sick, 
and  needed  Phyllis  for  your  comfort,  or  for  your 
business,  slie  would  not  leave  you.  Men  may  leave 
father  and  mother  for  their  wives,  that  is  their  duty  ; 
but  women  have  a  higher  commandment  given  them. 
It  may  1)6  an  unw^-itten  Scripture,  but  it  is  in  evejy 
good  daugliter's  heart,  Richard." 

The  r-quirc  did  not  again  name  to  him  the  succes- 
sion to  Ilallam.  Antony's  proposal  had  become  the 
d(!rnv.^t  hope  of  the  old  man's  heart.  He  wished  to 
live  tiiat  he  might  see  the  estate  honorably  restored 
to  liis  son.  He  had  fully  determined  that  it  should 
go  to  Elizabeth,  unless  Antony  paid  the  uttermost 
farthing  of  its  redemj:)tion ;  but  if  he  did  this,  then 
he  believed  that  it  might  be  safely  entrusted  to  him. 
For  a  man  may  be  reckless  with  money  or  land  which 
he  acquires  by  inheritance,  but  he  usually  prizes  what 
he  buys  with  money  which  he  himself  earns. 

Therefore  Richard's  and  Elizabeth's  hopes  hung 
upon  Antony's  success  ;  and  with  such  consolation  as 
he  could  gather  from  this  probability,  and  from  Eliza- 
beth's assurance  of  fidelity  to  him,  he  was  obliged  to 
content  himself. 


The  li'ALLAM  Slccession. 


IT 


twenty 


ly.    "I 

eave  all 
js  John 

re  sick, 
)r  your 
y  leave 
r  duty ; 
n  them. 
Q  evejy 

succes- 
»me  tlie 
shed  to 
•estored 

should 
termost 
is,  then 
to  him. 
i  which 
38  what 

8  hung 
ation  as 
1  Eliza- 
iged  to 


CHAPTER  VIL 

"  For  ireedorn's  battle,  once  begun, 
Bequeathed  bj  l;leodipg  sire  to  son, 
I'hoiigli  batlled  oft,  is  ever  won." 

"The  Ufieonqiiorublo  mind,  and  fi-cedotu'a  holy  Ilarae." 

"  Witli  freedom's  soil  bencatli  our  feet, 
Aiivl  tV>.-edoin's  buaner  stieaining  o'er  us." 

"And  the  King  hath  laid  his  hand 

On  the  wateiior's  head ; 
Till  the  heart  thnt  w,',b  wora  nnd  sad, 

I.s  qiiiet  and  coinfortcd." 

IT  waB  a  beautiful  day  at  j,he  close  of  ^fay,  Ir-oC-, 
and  iNew  Orleans  was  holding  a  jubilant  holi- 
day. The  streets  were  full  of  flowers  and  gay  with 
flying  flags ;  bells  were  ringing  atid  bands  of  mu- 
sic playing ;  and  at  the  earliest  dawn  the  levee  was 
black  with  a  dense  crowd  of  excited  men.  In  the 
shaded  balconies  beautiful  women  were  watchin^*- 
and  on  the  streets  there  was  the  constant  chatter  of 
gaudily  turbaned  neirresses,  and  the  rollickiu'i'  o-uf. 
faws  of  the  darkies,  who  had  nothing  to  do  but 
laugli  and  be  merry. 

New  Orleans  in  those  days  took  naturally  to  a 
hohday ;  and  a  very  little  excuoC  made  her  put  oJi 
her  festal  garujonts,  and  this  day  she  harl  tlie  Tcry 
best  of  reasons  for  her  rejoicing.  The  hero  of  San 
olacinto  was  coming  to  be  her  guest,  and  though  he 


\i\ 


178 


The  IIallam  Succession. 


M 


was  at  death's  door  with  his  long-neglected  wound, 
she  was  determined  to  meet  him  with  songs  of  tri- 
un)})h.  As  he  was  carried  in  his  cot  tlirough  tlie 
crowded  streets  to  tlie  house  of  the  physician  who 
was  to  attend  to  his  sliattered  bone,  shouts  of  accla- 
mation rent  tlie  air.  Men  and  women  and  little 
children  pressed  to  the  cotsidej  to  touch  his  hand, 
or  to  look  upon  his  noble,  emaciated  face.  And 
though  he  had  striven  with  things  impossible,  and 
was  worn  to  a  shadow  with  pain  and  fever,  he  must 
have  felt  that  "  welcome  "  an  over-j^ajment  for  all  his 
toil  and  suffering. 

Yet  it  was  not  alone  General  Houston  that  was 
honored  that  day  by  the  men  of  Xew  Orleans.  He 
represented  to  tliem  the  heroes  of  the  Texan  Ther- 
mopylae at  the  Alamo,  the  brave  five  hundred  who 
liad  fallen  in  cold-blooded  massacre  at  Goliad,  and  the 
seven  hundred  who  had  stood  for  liberty  and  the 
inalienal)le  rights  of  manhood  at  San  Jacinto.  He 
was  not  only  Sam  Houston  ;  he  was  the  ideal  in 
whom  men  honored  all  the  noblest  sentiments  of 
humanity. 

A  few  friends  accompanied  him,  and  among  them 
John  Millard.  On  reaching  Texas  John  had  gone 
at  once  to  Houston's  side  ;  and  in  da^'s  and  nights  of 
such  extremity  as  they  sliared  together,  friendship 
grows  ra})idly.  Houston,  like  the  best  of  great  gen- 
erals, had  immense  personal  magnetism,  and  drew 
close  to  him  the  brave  and  the  honest-heai'ted.    John 


The  Hal  I.AM  Succession. 


179 


[  wound, 
gs  of  tri- 
)ugh  tlio 
ciiiii  wlio 
of  acclu- 
iid  little 
is  hand, 
B.  And 
ible,  and 
he  must 
or  all  his 

that  was 
ins.  He 
an  Ther- 
Ircd  who 
,  and  tlie 

and  tlie 
ito.     He 

ideal  in 
nents  of 

ng  them 
lad  gone 
nights  of 
:*iendship 
:'eat  gen- 
nd  drew 
id.    Jolin 


gave  him  tlie  love  of  a  son  for  a  father,  and  the  hom- 
age of  a  soldier  for  a  great  leader.  He  rode  hy  his 
tide  to  victory,  and  he  could  not  bear  to  leave  him 
when  he  wiis  in  sulfering  and  dauijjer. 

r I ly ills  expected  John,  and  the  Bishop  went  into 
die  city  to  meet  him.  O,  how  happy  she  was!  She 
went  from  room  to  room  re-ari'anging  the  lace  cur- 
tains, and  placing  every  chair  and  couch  in  its  pret- 
tiest position.  The  table  on  such  holidays  is  a  kind 
of  altar,  and  she  spread  it  with  the  snowiest  damask, 
the  clearest  crystal,  and  the  brightest  silver.  She 
made  it  beautiful  with  fresh  cool  fei-ns  and  buddinir 
roses.  Outside  Kature  had  done  her  part.  The 
orange-trees  lilled  the  air  with  subtle  fragrance,  and 
the  warm  south  wind  wafted  it  in  waves  of  perfume 
through  the  open  doors  and  windows.  Every  vine 
was  in  its  first  beauty,  every  tree  and  shrub  had  as 
yet  its  spring  grace,  that  luminous  emerald  ti-anspar- 
ency  which  seems  to  make  the  very  atmosphere 
green.  The  garden  was  wearing  all  its  lilies  and 
pansies  and  sweet  violets,  and  the  birds  were  build- 
ing, and  shedding  song  upon  every  tree-top. 

To  meet  her  lover,  when  that  lover  comes  back 
from  the  battle-field  with  the  light  of  victory  on  his 
brow,  what  women  will  not  put  on  all  her  beautiful 
garments  ?  Phyllis's  dark  eyes  held  a  wonderfully 
tender  light,  and  the  soft,  rich  palh^r  of  her  complex- 
ion took  just  the  shadow  of  color  from  the  dress  of 
pale  pink  which  fell  in  tiowing  lines  to  her  small  san- 


i 


i  I     I 


i 


i   II 


i 


bnirii) 


'-:  1  '  ^ 


;ll 


J 


180 


The  11  all  am  Slccession. 


(l;ili'd  feet.  A  few  white  iiiircissus  were  at  her  belt 
and  in  lier  black  hair,  and  a  fairer  picture  of  pure  and 
graceful  womanhood  never  gladdened  a  h)ver"'s  heart. 

John  liad  taken  in  and  taken  on,  even  in  the  few 
weeks  of  his  absence,  sonic  of  that  peculiar  air  of  in- 
dependence which  seems  to  be  tlie  spirit  infusing 
every  thing  in  Texan  land.  "  I  can't  help  it,"  he 
said,  with  a  laugh ;  "  it's  in  the  air  ;  the  very  winds  are 
full  of  freedom;  they  know  nothing  will  challenge 
them,  and  they  go  roving  over  the  prairies  with  a 
sound  like  a  song." 

The  Bishop  had  come  back  with  John,  but  the 
Bishop  was  one  of  tliose  old  men  who,  while  they 
gather  the  wisdom  of  age,  can  still  keep  their  young 
heart.  After  supper  was  over  he  said :  "  Phyllis, 
my  daughter,  let  them  put  me  a  chair  and  a  table 
under  the  live  oaks  by  the  cabins.  I  am  going  to 
have  a  class-meeting  there  to-night.  That  M'ill  give 
me  the  pleasure  of  making  many  hearts  glad,  and  it 
will  give  John  a  couple  of  hours  to  tell  you  all  the 
wonderful  thino-s  he  is  ij-oini;  to  do." 

And  there,  two  hours  afterward,  John  and  Pliyllis 
went  to  find  him.  lie  was  sittin^:  under  a  mvat  tree, 
with  the  servants  in  little  ebony  squads  around  him 
at  the  doors  of  their  white  cabins;  and  singularly 
wliite  they  looked,  under  the  swaying  festoons  of 
gray  moss  and  in  the  soft  light ;  for  the  moon  was 
far  up  in  the  zenith,  calm  and  bright  and  worship- 
ful.    John  and  Phyllis  stood  together,  listening  to 


icr  bolt 
lire  luid 
s  heart, 
the  few 
ir  of  in- 
nfnsiiig 

it,"  lie 
inds  are 
lallerige 

with  a 


but  the 
le  they 

'  young 

^hyllis, 
a  table 
oinor  to 
ill  give 
and  it 
all  the 

Phvllis 
it  tree, 
id  hini 
ularly 
ons  of 
on  was 
orship- 
ing  to 


I 


TiiH  IIali.am   ISlX'LKSSIOX. 


LSI 


the  close  of  liis  di.sc'onrt^e,  and  sliaring  in  tlie  peace  of 
his  li"nediction.  Tlu  ii  tliey  walked  Bilcntly  l.  ick  to 
tlu'  hcii?ie,  wouderiully  toiiclied  hy  the  pathos  of  a 
little ''Spirit liar' th;it  an  old  negress  started,  and 
whose  whisp{,'ring  minor  tones  seemed  to  pervade  all 
the  garden — 

"  Stt'iil  away — steal  away  ! 
isteal  away  to  Jesu.s  !  " 

And  in  tliose  moinents,  though  not  a  word  was 
uttered,  the  hearts  of  Pxiyllis  and  Jolni  were  knitted 
togetlier  as  nj  sensuous  pleasure  of  dance  or  song 
could  ever  have  boiiml  them.  Love  touched  the 
s])iritual  element  in  each  soul,  and  received  its  earnest 
of  imniortalitv.  And  lovers,  who  have  had  such  ex- 
periences  together,  need  never  fear  that  chance  or 
change  of  life  can  separate  them. 

'Slohn,"  said  the  liishop,  as  they  sat  in  the  moon- 
light, "  it  is  my  turn  now.  I  want  to  hear  about  Texas 
and  about  Houston.     VV^here  did  you  meet  him  ?" 

•"■  I  met  him  falling  back  from  the  Colorado.  1 
crossed  the  Buffalo  Bayou  at  Vance's  Bridge,  just 
above  San  Jacinto,  and  rode  west.  Twenty  miles 
away  I  met  the  women  and  children  of  the  western 
settlements,  and  they  tt»ld  me  that  Houston  was  a 
little  farther  on,  interposing  himself  and  his  seven 
hundred  men  between  the  ^Mexican  -trmy  and  them. 
O,  how  my  heart  bled  for  them  !  They  were  foot- 
sore, hungry,  and  exhausted.  M'lny  of  the  women 
were   carrying  sick   chilui'en.      The  whole   country 


I 


IMAGE  EVALUATION 
TEST  TARGET  (MT-3) 


1.0 


I.I 


11.25 


UilM    |2.5 

■^  1^    12.2 
2.0 


u  mil  1.6 


V] 


v^ 


'^F 


^> 


>^^ 


(? 


/ 


Photographic 

Sciences 
Corporation 


23  WEST  MAIN  STftEET 

WEBSTER,  N.Y.  14580 

(716)  873-4S03 


if. 


iK'aniii'ffl 


wmm 


Vim 


i 

,1 
I 


IS 


■ 


til  V, 


ii 


182 


The  11  all  am  SLccLssiioN. 


bc'liind  them  hud  been  depopidated,  and  tlieir  only 
hope  was  to  reach  the  eastei'ii  settleinents  on  the 
Trinity  before  Santa  Anna's  army  overtook  them.  I 
could  do  nothing  to  help  them,  and  I  hasted  onward 
to  join  tlie  defending  party.  I  came  np  to  it  on  tlio 
evening  of  the  20th  of  April — a  desperate  handful 
of  men — chased  from  their  homes  by  an  overpower- 
ing foe,  and  (j[uito  aware  that  not  only  themselves, 
but  their  wives  and  children,  were  doomed  by  Santa 
Anna  to  an  exterminating  massacre." 

"What  was  your  iirst  impression  of  Houston, 
John  ? " 

"  That  he  was  a  born  leader  of  men.  lie  had  the 
true  imperial  look.  He  was  dressed  in  buckskin  and 
an  Indian  blanket,  and  was  leaning  upon  his  rifle,  talk- 
ing to  some  of  his  men.  '  General,'  I  said,  'lama  vol- 
unteer.    I  bring  you  a  true  heart  and  a  steady  rifle* 

'• '  You  are  welcome,  sir,'  he  answered.  '  AVe  are 
sworn  to  win  our  rights,  or  to  die  free  men.  Now, 
what  do  you  say?' 

" '  That  I  am  with  you  with  all  my  soul.'  Then  I  told 
him  that  there  were  two  regiments  on  the  wa}",  and 
that  the  women  of  Nashville  were  raising  a  company 
of  young  men,  and  that  another  company  would  start 
from  Natchez  within  a  week.  '  Why,  this  is  great 
iKMvs,'  he  said ;  and  he  looked  me  steadily'  in  the  face 
till  bot'ii  our  eves  shone  and  our  hands  met — I  know 
not  how — but  I  loved  and  trusted  him." 

"  I  understand,  John.     When  soldiers  are  few  they 


U'  I. . 


TiiK  Hallam  Slccessiox. 


183 


theiv  onlj 

1 

ts  on  the 

tliein.     I 

d  onward 

1 

it  on  tlio 

* 

B  liandfiii 

V'crpowor- 

ernsolvcvs, 

l>y  Santa 

Houston, 

liad  the 
skin  and 
ifle,  talk- 
un  a  vol- 
dv  rifle* 
We  are 
.     Now, 

en  I  told 
ray,  and 
onipany 
dd  start 
is  ^reat 
'lie  face 
r  know 

!W  tliev 


<h-aw  close  to«ret]ier.  Forlorn  hopes  have  their  <,^!ad 
hours,  and  when  men  press  hands  beneath  the  tire  of 
oatteries  they  touch  souls  also.  It  is  war  that  gives 
us  (Hir  brother-in-arnjs.  The  spiritual  warfare  knows 
tills  also,  John. 

"  '  0,  these  are  moments,  raro  fair  moments  I 
Sing  and  shout,  and  use  them  well.'  " 

"The  little  band  were  without  commissary  and 
without  traMsi)ort;  they  were  half-clad  and  half- 
arnied,  and  in  the  neighborhood  of  a  powerful  enemy. 
They  had  been  living  three  days  upon  eai-s  of  dried 
corn,  but  they  had  tlie  will  of  men  determined  to  be 
free  and  the  hearts  of  heroes.  I  told  them  that  the 
eyes  of  the  whole  country  were  on  them,  tl.eir  sympa- 
thies with  them,  and  that  help  was  coming.  "  And 
who  do  you  think  was  with  them,  father  ?  The  very 
soul  and  spirit  of  their  purpose  i  " 

"  Some  Methodist  missionary,  doubtless." 

''  Henry  Stephenson.  He  had  been  preaching  and 
distributing  Bii,les  from  San  Anto.iia  to  the  s'lbine 
Uiver,  and  neither  soldier  nor  priest  could  make  him 
:ifraid.  He  was  reading  the  Bible,  with  his  rifle  in 
iii-s  hand,  when  1  lirst  saw  him— a  tall,  powerful  man, 
with  a  head  like  a  dome  and  an  eve  like  an  ea-de." 

''  Well,  well,  John  ;  what  would  you  ? 

"  '  In  Iron  times  God  sends  with  mij,'hty  power 
Iron  apostles  to  make  smooth  hia  way.' 

What  did  he  say  to  you  ?  " 


184 


Thk  Hallam  Succession. 


'•  Nothini^  HjK.'cially  to  me  ;  l)ut  as  we  were  lying 
around  resting  and  watcliing  he  spoke  to  all.  '  Boys ! ' 
he  said,  '  J  have  been  reudinff  the  word  of  the  living 
God.  We  are  liis  free-born  sons,  and  the  name  of 
our  elder  bi other,  C-hrist,  can't  be  mixed  up  with  any 
kind  of  tyranny,  kingly  or  priestly  ;  we  won't  have 
it.  We  are  the  children  of  the  knife-bearing  men 
who  trampled  kingly  and  priestly  tyranny  beneath 
their  feet  on  the  rocks  of  New  England.  We  are 
fighting  for  our  rights  and  our  homes,  and  for  the 
everlasting  freedom  of  our  children.  Strike  like 
men !     The  cause  commends  the  blow  ! '  " 

"  And  I  wish  I  had  been  there  to  strike,  John ;  or, 
at  least,  to  strengthen  and  succor  those  who  did 
strike." 

"We  had  no  drums,  or  fifes,  or  banners  in  our 
little  army  ;  none  of  the  pomp  of  war ;  nothing  that 
helps  and  stimulates ;  but  the  preacher  was  worth 
them  all." 

"I  can  believe  that.  When  we  remember  how 
many  preachers  bore  arms  in  Cromw^ell's  camps,  there 
isn^t  much  miracle  in  Marston  Moor  and  Worcester 
fight.  You  were  very  fortunate  to  be  in  time  for 
San  Jacinto." 

"  I  was  that.  Fortune  may  do  her  worst,  she  can- 
not rob  me  of  that  honor." 

"  It  was  a  grand  battle." 

"  It  was  more  a  slaughter  than  a  battle.  You  must 
imagine  Santa  Anna  with  two  thousand  men  behind 


TiiK  liALLAM  Succession. 


185 


'ere  lying 
'  Boys ! ' 
the  liviiio: 
I  nuine  of 
>  witli  any 
on't  have 
I  ring  men 
y  beneath 
We  are 
lid  for  the 
trike    like 

Jolni ;  or, 
who   did 

'S  in  our 
ling  that 
as  worth 

ber   how 

ps,  there 

lYorcester 

time  for 

she  can- 


Tou  must 
n  behind 


their  breastworks,  and  seven  hundred  despei-ate  Tex- 
ans  facing  tlieni.  Abon^"  noon  three  men  took  axes, 
and,  mounting  their  horsos,  rode  ra}>idly  away.  I 
heard,  as  they  mounted,  Houston  say  to  them,  '  Do 
your  vork,  and  come  back  like  eagles,  or  you'll  be 
behind  time  for  the  tight.'  Tiien  all  was  quiet  for 
an  hour  or  two.  About  the  middle  of  the  afternoon,- 
whe»i  Mexicans  are  usually  sleeping  or  gambling,  we 
got  the  order  to  '  stand  ready.'  In  a  few  moments 
the  three  men  who  had  left  us  at  noon  returned. 
Thev  were  covered  with  foam  and  mire,  and  one  of 
them  was  swinging  an  ax.  As  he  came  close  to  us 
he  cried  out,  '  Vance's  Bridge  is  cut  down !  Xow 
tight  for  your  wives  and  your  lives,  and  remember 
the  Alamo ! ' 

Instantly  Houston  gave  the  order,  '  Charge  ! ' 
And  the  whole  seven  hundred  launclied  themselves 
on  Santa  Anna's  breastworks  like  an  avalanche.  Then 
there  was  three  minutes  of  smoke  and  tire  and  blood. 
Then  a  desperate  hand-to-hand  struggle.  Our  men 
had  charged  the  breastwork,  with  their  rifles  in  their 
hands  and  their  bowie-knives  between  their  teeth. 
AVhen  rifles  and  pistols  had  been  discharged  they 
flung  them  away,  rushed  on  the  foe,  and  cut  their 
path  through  a  wall  of  living  Mexicans  with  their 
knives.  'Remember  the  Alamo!'  'Remember  the 
Goliad  ! '  were  the  cries  passed  from  mouth  to  mouth 
whenever  the  slaughter  slackened.  The  Mexicans 
were  panic-stricken.     Of  one  column  of  Ave  hundred 


180 


The  IIallam  Succession. 


Mexicans  only  thirty  lived  to  surrender  themselves  as 
prisoners  of  war." 


a 


AVas  such  slauiirhter  needful,  John  ?  " 


"  Yes,  it  was  needful,  Phyllis.  What  do  you  say, 
father  ? " 

''  I  say  that  we  who  shall  reap  where  others  sowed 
in  blood  and  toil,  must  not  judge  the  stern,  strong 
hands  that  labored  for  us.  God  knows  the  kind  of 
men  that  are  needed  for  the  work  that  is  to  be  done. 
Peace  is  pledged  i^  war,  and  often  has  the  Gospel 
path  been  laid  o'er  fields  of  battle.  San  Jacinto  svill 
be  no  barren  deed ;  '  one  death  for  freedom  makes 
millions  free  ! '  " 

"  Did  you  lose  many  men,  John  ?  " 

"  The  number  of  our  slain  is  the  miracle.  "VVe  had 
seven  killed  and  thirty  wounded.  It  is  incredible,  I 
kno  AT ;  and  when  the  report  was  made  to  Houston  he 
asked,  '  Is  it  a  dream  ? '  " 

"  But  Houston  himself  was  among  the  wounded, 
was  he  not  ? " 

*'  At  the  very  beginning  of  the  fight  a  ball  crashed 
through  his  ankle,  and  his  horse  also  received  two 
balls  in  its  chest ;  but  neither  man  nor  horse  faltered. 
I  saw  the  noble  animal  at  the  close  of  the  engage- 
ment staggering  with  his  master  over  the  heaps  of 
slain.  Houston,  indeed,  had  great  ditHculty  in  arrest- 
ing the  carnage  ;  far  over  the  prairie  the  Hying  foe 
were  followed,  and  at  Vance's  Bridge — to  which  the 
Mexicans  fled,  unaware  of  its  destruction — there  waa 


ThK    IIaI.LAM    SltCKSSION. 


187 


aselves  as 


you  say, 

Ts  sowed 
n,  fctrong 
)  kind  of 
be  done. 
e  Gospel 
into  will 
n  makes 


We  had 
edible,  I 
iston  he 

ounded, 

crashed 
ed  two 
altered. 
3ngage- 
eaps  of 
arrest- 
ing foe 
ch  the 
jre  was 


an  awful  scene.     Tlie  bayou  was  choked  with  men 
and  horses,  and  the  water  red  as  blood." 

"  Ah,  John ;  could  you  not  spare  the  flying  ? 
Poor  souls !  " 

"Daughter,  keep  your  pity  for  the  women  and 
children  who  would  have  been  butchered  had  these 
very  men  been  able  to  doit!  Give  your  sympnthy 
to  the  men  who  fell  in  their  defense.  Did  you  see 
Stephenson  in  the  iight,  John?" 

John  smiled.  "  I  saw  him  after  it.  He  had  torn 
up  every  shirt  he  had  into  bandages,  and  was  busy  all 
night  long  among  the  wounded  men.  In  the  early 
dawn  of  the  next  day  we  buried  our  dead.  As  we 
piled  the  last  green  sod  above  them  the  sun  rose  and 
flooded  the  graves  with  light,  and  Stephenson  turned 
his  face  to  the  east,  and  cried  out,  like  some  old  He- 
brew prophet  warrior : 

"  '  Praise  ye  the  Lord  for  the  avenging  of  Israel, 
when  the  people  willingly  offered  themselves.'  .  .  . 

"  '  My  heart  is  toward  the  governors  of  Israel,  that 
offered  themselves  willingly  among  the  people.  Bless 
ye  the  Lord.'  .  .  . 

"  'So  let  all  thine  enemies  perish,  O  Lord  :  but  let 
them  that  love  him  be  as  the  sun  when  he  goeth  forth 
in  his  mio'ht.' " 

''  Verses  from  a  famous  old  battle  hymn,  John.  How 
that  Hebrew  book  fits  itself  to  all  generations  !  It  is 
to  huniimity  what  the  sunshine  is  to  the  material 
world,  new  every  day;  as  cheering  to  one  genera- 


t 

I 

I 


ill 


188 


The  ILm.lam  Succession. 


tion  as  to  another,  suitable  for  all  ages  and  cir- 
camstanccs." 

"  I  asked  liini  wliere  tlie  verses  were,  and  learned 
them.  I  want  to  forget  nothing  pertaining  to  that 
day.  Look  here  !  "  and  John  took  a  little  box  ont  of 
his  pocket  and,  opening  it,  displayed  one  grain  of  In- 
dian corn.  "  Father,  Phyllis,  I  wonld  not  part  with 
that  grain  of  corn  for  any  money." 

"  It  has  a  story,  I  see,  John." 

"  I  reckon  it  has.  When  Santa  Anna,  disguised  as 
a  peasant,  and  covered  with  the  mnd  of  the  swamp  in 
which  he  had  been  hiding,  was  brought  before  Hous- 
ton, I  was  there.  Houston,  suffering  very  keenly 
from  his  wound,  was  stretched  upon  the  ground 
amoncr  his  oflBcers.  The  Mexican  is  no  coward.  He 
bowed  with  all  his  Spanish  graces  and  complimented 
Houston  on  the  bravery  of  his  small  army,  declaring 
*  that  he  had  never  before  understood  the  American 
character.'  *I  see  now,*  he  said,  laying  both  his 
hands  upon  his  breast,  *  that  it  is  im})ossible  to  enslave 
them.'  Houston  put  his  hand  in  his  pocket  and  pulled 
out  part  of  an  ear  of  corn.  '  Sir,'  he  asked,  *  do  you 
ever  expect  to  conquer  men  fighting  for  freedom 
who  can  march  four  days  with  an  ear  of  corn  for  a 
ration  ? '  Young  Zavala  looked  at  the  corn,  and  his 
eyes  filled.  *  Senor,'  he  said,  *give  me,  I  pray  you, 
one  grain  of  that  corn ;  I  will  plant  and  replant 
it  until  my  fields  wave  with  it.'  We  answered 
the  request  with  a  shout,  and  Houston  gave  it  SLMAy. 


i 


The  Hallam  Successdjn. 


189 


cir- 


grain  by  grain.  Plijllis  sliall  j)lant  and  M-atcli  mine. 
In  two  years  one  grain  will  give  ns  enough  to  sow  a 
decent  lot,  and,  if  v/e  live,  we  shall  see  many  a  broad 
acre  tasseled  with  San  Jacinto  corn." 

"  You  must  take  me  to  see  your  general,  John." 

"  Bishop,  we  will  go  to-morrow.  You  are  sure  to 
like  him— though,  it  is  wonderful,  but  even  now  he 
has  enemies." 

"  Not  at  all  wonderful,  John.  No  man  can  be  liked 
by  every  one.  God  himself  docs  not  please  all ;  nay, 
as  men  are,  I  think  it  may  stand  with  divinity  to  say, 
He  cannot." 

"  He  will  like  to  see  you,  sir.  He  told  me  himself 
that  nearly  all  the  Texan  colonies  brought  not  only 
their  religion,  but  their  preachers  with  them.  Ho' 
said  it  was  these  Protestant  preachers  who  had  fanned 
and  kept  alive  the  spirit  of  resistance  to  Spanish  tyr- 
anny .;nd  to  Roman  priest  craft." 

"  I  have  not  a  doubt  of  it,  John.  You  cannot  have 
a  free  faith  in  an  enslaved  country.  They  knew  that 
the  way  of  tlie  Lord  must  be  prepared. 


if 


'"  Their  frcc-brcdsr.!)!s 
Went  not  with  priests  to  sc!;ool, 
To  trim  the  tippet  and  the  stele, 
And  pray  by  printed  rule. 


!:| 


" '  And  they  would  cast  the  engcr  word 
From  their  hearts  fiery  core, 

Smoking  and  red,  as  God  had  stirred 
The  Hebrew  men  of  yore.'  " 


190 


TllK    1 1  AM, AM    Sl.'CCr^SION. 


During  the  next  two  weeks  many  siniihir  conversa- 
tions  made  the  hours  to  all  three  hearts  something  far 
1110" '  than  time  ehopj)e(l  uj)  into  minutes.  There  was 
scarcely  a  barren  momenc,  and  faith  and  hoj)e  anu 
love  grew  in  them  rapidly  toward  liighcr  skies  and 
wider  horizons.  Then  (Teiieral  Houston  was  so  much 
relieved  that  he  insisted  on  going  back  to  his  post, 
and  John  returned  to  Texas  with  iiim. 

But  with  the  pleasant  memories  of  tliis  short,  stir- 
ring visit,  and  frequent  letters  from  John  and  Richard, 
the  summer  passed  rapidly  to  Phyllis.  Her  strength 
was  nearly  restored,  and  she  weni;  singing  about  the 
house  full  of  joy  and  of  loving-kindness  to  all  living 
things.  The  youngest  servant  on  the  place  caught 
her  spirit,  and  the  flowers  and  sunshine  and  warmth 
all  seemed  a  part  of  that  ampler  life  and  happiness 
which  had  come  to  her. 

Richard  returned  in  the  fall.  He  had  remained  a 
little  later  than  he  intended  in  order  to  be  present  at 
Antony's  marriage.  "A  very  splendid  affair,  indeed," 
he  said ;  "  hut  I  doubt  if  Lady  Evelyn's  heart  was  in  it." 
It  w\as  rather  provoking  to  Phyllis  that  Richard  had 
taken  entirely  a  masculine  view  of  the  ceremony,  and 
had  quite  neglected  to  notice  all  the  sm?H  details 
wliich  are  so  important  in  a  woman's  estimate.  Ho 
could  not  describe  a  single  dress.  "  It  seemed  as  if 
every  one  wore  white,  and  made  a  vast  display  of 
jewelry.  Pshaw!  Phyllis,  one  wedding  is  just  like 
another." 


TilE    IlALLAM    SUCCKSSION. 


191 


*•'  Not  at  all,  Kiehard.     Wlio  married  them  ?  " 

"There  was  a  Bisliop,  a  dean,  and  a  couple  of 
clcr<j^ymen  present.  I  imacrlne  the  knot  was  very  se- 
curely tied." 

"  Was  the  squire  present  ?  " 

"  No.  They  were  married  from  the  carl's  town 
house.  The  squire  was  unable  to  take  the  journey. 
He  was  very  quiet  and  somber  about  the  affair." 

"George  Eltham,  I  suppose,  was  Antony's  chief 
friend  ? " 

"  lie  was  not  there  at  all.  The  Elthams  went  to 
the  Continent  shortly  before  the  wedding.  It  troubled 
the  squire." 

"Why?  Wihat  particular  difference  could  it 
make  ? " 

*'IIe  said  to  me  that  it  was  the  beginning  of  a 
change  which  he  feared.  '  George  will  leave  t'  firm 
next.  Antony  ought  to  have  married  Cicely  Eltham. 
I  know  Eltham — he'll  be  angry  at  Cicely  having 
been  passed  by— and  he'll  show  it,  soon  or  later, 
I'm  sure.' " 

"  But  Antony  had  a  right  to  please  himself.'* 

"I  fancy  that  he  had  been  very  attentive  to  Miss 
Eltham.  I  remember  noticing  something  like  it 
myself  the  summer  you  and  I  were  first  at  Ilal- 
lam." 

"  Elizabeth  says,  in  her  last  letter,  that  they  are  in 


aris. 


)» 


"  Probably  tliev  are  back  in  England  by  this  time. 


i    I 


m 


11)2 


TiiK  IIallam  Sl'cckssion. 


Antony  has  taken  a  very  fiiio  mansion  at  Rich- 
mond." 

"Ih  the  hridc  pretty?" 

"  Very — only  cold  and  indifTerent,  also.  I  am  al- 
most inclined  to  say  that  she  was  sad." 

Tlicn  tliey  talked  of  .lolin's  vi^it,  and  the  Bubject 
had  a  ureat  fascination  for  liichard.  IVrhaps  Phyl- 
lis nnconseiously  described  Texas,  and  Texan  atTairs, 
in  the  light  of  her  own  heart ;  it  is  certain  that  Rich- 
ard never  wearied  of  hearing  lier  talk  upon  the  sub- 
ject ;  and  the  following  spring  lie  determined  to  sec 
the  country  of  which  he  had  heard  so  much.  John 
met  him  with  a  fine  horse  at  the  Buffalo  Bayou, 
and  they  took  their  course  direct  west  to  the  Colo- 
rado. 

To  one  coming  from  tlie  old  world  it  was  like  a 
new'  world  that  haa  been  lying  asleep  for  centuries. 
It  had  "^uch  a  fresh  odor  of  earth  and  clover  and  wild 
flowers.  The  clear  pure  air  caused  a  peculiar  buoy- 
ancy of  spirits.  The  sky  was  perfectly  blue,  and  the 
earth  freshly  green.  The  sunrises  had  the  pomp  of 
Persian  mornings,  the  nights  the  soft  bright  glory  of 
the  Texan  moon.  They  rode  for  days  over  a  prairie 
studded  with  islands  of  fine  trees,  the  grass  smooth 
as  a  park,  and  beautiful  with  blue  salvias  and  col- 
umbines, with  yellow  coronella  and  small  starry 
pinks,  and  near  the  numerous  creeks  the  white  feath- 
ery tufts  of  the  fragrant  meadow-sweet.  It  looked 
like  miles  and  miles  of  green  rumpled  velvet,  full  of 


The  IIallam  Sitcession. 


lO.'] 


)rairie 
Inooth 
col- 
starry 
Ifcatli- 
>oked 
^ill  of 


dainty  crinklingfl,  mottled  with  pale  maroon,  and  cuir, 
purple,  and  cream-color. 

"How  beautiful  is  this  place!"  cried  Tticliard, 
reverently;  "surely  this  is  one  of  the  many  nuinsions 
of  our  Father!  One  would  be  at^hamed  to  be  caught 
sinning  or  worrying  in  it !  " 

As  they  reached  the  i»ine  sands  the  breeze  was 
keener,  and  their  spirits  were  still  more  joyous  and 
elastic.  The  golden  dust  of  the  ])ine  flower  floated 
round  in  soft  clouds,  and  sunk  gently  down  to  the 
ground.  Was  it  not  from  the  flower  of  the  pine  the 
old  gods  of  Olympus  extracted  the  odorous  resin 
with  which  they  perfumed  their  nectar?  And  then, 
shortly  afterward,  they  came  to  the  magnificent  roll- 
ing prairies  of  the  Colorado,  with  their  bottondess 
black  soil,  and  their  timbered  creeks,  and  their  air 
full  of  the  clean  dainty  scent  of  miles  of  wild  honey- 
suckle. 

"  Now,  liichard,  drink — drink  of  the  Colorado.  It 
has  a  charm  to  lure  you  back  to  Texas,  no  matter 
how  far  away  you  stray.  Soon  or  later  't  :e  mustang 
feeling '  will  seize  you,  and  you'll  leave  every  thing 
and  come  back.  Do  you  see  yonder  hilly  roll,  with 
the  belt  of  timber  at  its  foot  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  see  it." 

"  On  its  summit  I  am  croinnj  to  build  a  home — a 
long,  low  log-house,  spreading  out  under  the  live 
oaks,  and  draped  with  honeysuckles.  Phyllis  helped 
me  to  draw  the  plan  of  it  when  I  saw  her  last.     The 


r^^^^^^-anr^-^m 


!' 


£ 


'     I' 


f  i      i 


194 


The  IIallam  Succession. 


house  will  be  built,  and  the  vines  phinted  by  the  end 
of  this  year.  Then  she  has  promised  to  come.  I 
hope  you  will  be  glad,  Kichard." 

"  I  shall  be  glad  to  see  her  and  you  happy." 
But  although  the  pretty  nest  was  built,  and  the 
vines  growing  luxuriantly,  it  was  not  until  the  close 
of  1838,  nearly  two  years  and  a  lialf  after  San  Ja- 
cinto, that  the  lovers  could  venture  to  begin  their 
housekeeping.  The  Indians  hung  persistently  about 
the  timber  of  the  Colorado,  and  it  was  necessary  to 
keep  armed  men  constantly  on  the  '  range '  to  protect 
the  lives  of  the  advance  corps  of  Anglo-American 
civilization.  During  this  time  John  was  almost  con- 
stantly m  the  saddle,  and  Phyllis  knew  that  it  would 
be  folly  to  add  to  his  responsibility  until  his  service 
was  performed. 

As  it  frequently  happens,  one  change  brings  anoth- 
er. While  the  preparations  were  making  for  Phyllis's 
marriage,  a  letter  arrived  from  IIallam  which  Richard 
could  not  refuse  to  answer  in  person.  "My  father 
is  dying,"  wrote  Elizabeth,  "  and  he  wishes  much  to 
see  you."  So  the  marriage  was  hurried  forward,  and 
took  place  in  the  last  days  of  September.  Some 
marriages  do  not  much  affect  the  old  home,  but  that 
of  Phyllis  was  likely  to  induce  many  changes.  She 
would  take  with  her  to  Texas  Harriet  and  several  of 
the  old  serv^ants;  and  there  was  no  one  to  till  her 
place  as  mistress  of  the  house,  or  as  her  brother's 
companion.     So  that  when  she  thought  of  the  cheery 


»*-HI 


The  IIallam  Succession. 


195 


rooms,  closed  and  silent,  she  wus  glad  that  Richard 
hud  to  leave  them,  until  the  first  shock  of  their  sepa- 
ration was  over. 

She  went  away  with  a  pretty  and  cheerful  eclat. 
A  steamer  had  been  chartered  to  take  the  party  and 
all  their  household  belongings  from  New  Orleans  to 
Texas,  for  Phyllis  was  carrying  much  of  her  old  life 
into  her  new  one.  The  deck  was  crowded  with  boxes 
of  every  description ;  the  cabin  full  of  a  cheerful 
party  who  had  gone  down  to  send  away  the  bride 
with  blessings  and  good  wishes.  It  seemed  all  sad 
enough  to  llichard.  After  our  first  youth  we  have 
lost  that  recklessness  of  change  which  thro^vs  off  the 
old  and  welcomes  the  new  without  regret.  The  past 
had  been  so  happy,  what  the  future  might  be  none 
could  tell. 

lie  turned  his  face  eastward  without  much  hope. 
Elizabeth's  letter  had  been  short  and  inexplicit. 
"  She  would  see  him  soon ;  letters  never  fully  ex- 
plained any  thing."  He  arrived  at  IIallam  toward 
the  end  of  October,  and  having  come  by  an  earlier 
packet  than  had  been  named,  he  was  not  expected, 
and  there  was  no  one  at  the  coach  to  meet  him.  It 
was  one  of  those  dying  days  of  summer  when  there  is 
a  pale  haze  over  the  brown  bare  fields  of  the  gathered 
harvests.  Elizabeth  was  walking  on  the  terrace ;  he 
saw  her  turn  and  come  unconsciously  toward  him. 
She  was  pale  and  worn,  and  an  inexprcssil)le  sadness 
was  in  her  face.     But  the  surprise  revealed  the  full 


y  \ 


i 


I 


mmmmm 


)       ( 


ii 
i     ■ 

k" 

196 


The  IIallam  Succession. 


beauty  and  tenderness  of  her  soul.  "  O,  Ricliard ! 
Richard !  my  love !  my  love ! "  and  so  saying,  slie 
came  forward  with  hands  outstretched  and  level 
palms ;  and  the  rose  came  blushing  into  her  ciieeks, 
and  the  love-light  into  her  eyes ;  and  when  Richard 
ki'-ticd  her,  she  whispered,  "Thank  God  you  are 
come !  1  am  so  glad  !  " 

People  are  apt  to  suppose  that  in  old  countries  and 
among  the  wealthy  classes  years  come  and  go  and 
leave  few  traces.  The  fact  is  that  no  family  is  pre- 
cisely in  the  same  circumstances  after  an  interval  of 
a  year  or  two.  Gold  cannot  bar  tli«  door  against  sor- 
row,  and  tapestry  and  eider-down  have  no  covenant 
with  change.  Richard  had  not  been  many  hou  's  in 
IIallam  when  he  felt  the  influence  of  unusual  cur- 
rents and  the  want  of  customary  ones.  The  squire's 
face  no  longer  made  a  kind  of  sunshine  in  the  big, 
low  rooms  and  on  the  pleasant  terraces.  He  was  con- 
fined to  his  own  apartments,  and  there  Richard  went 
to  talk  to  him. 

But  he  was  facing  death  with  a  calm  and  grand 
simplicity.  "  I'd  hev  liked  to  hev  lived  a  bit  longer, 
Richard,  if  it  hed  been  His  will,'  but  he  knows 
what's  best.  I  s'all  answer  willingly  when  he  calls 
me.  He  knows  t'  right  hour  to  make  t'  change ;  I'd 
happen  order  it  too  soon  or  too  late.  Now  sit  thee 
down,  and  tell  me  about  this  last  fight  for  liberty. 
Phyllis  he  fair  made  my  old  heart  burn  and  beat  to 
t'  vary  name  o'  Texas.     I'm  none  bound  by  York- 


The  Hall  am  Succession. 


197 


shire,  though  I  do  tliink  it's  best  bit  o'  hmd  on  t'  face 
o'  c'  world.  And  I  like  to  stand  up  for  t'  weakest  side 
— that's  Yorkshire !  If  I  hed  known  nowt  o'  t'  quar- 
rel, I'd  hev  gone  wi'  t'  seven  hundred  instead  of  t'  two 
thousand  ;  ay,  would  I !"  Decay  had  not  touched  his 
mind  or  his  heart ;  his  eyes  flashed,  and  he  spoke  out 
with  all  the  fervor  of  his  youth :  "  If  I'd  nobbut  been 
a  young  man  when  a'  this  happened,  I'm  varry  sure 
I'd  hev  pitch'd  in  and  helped  'em.  It's  natural  for 
Englishmen  to  hate  t'  Spaniards  and  Papists.  Why, 
thou  knows,  we've  hed  some  tussles  wi'  them  our- 
selves ;  and  Americans  are  our  children,  I  reckon." 

"  Then  Texans  are  your  grandchildren  ;  Texas  is  an 
American  colony." 

"  They  hed  t'  sense  to  choose  a  varry  fine  country, 
it  seems.  If  I  was  young  again,  I'd  travel  and  see 
more  o'  t'  world.  But  when  I  was  thy  age  folks 
thought  t'  sun  rose  and  set  i'  England ;  that  they 
did." 

He  was  still  able,  leaning  upon  Eichard's  arm,  to 
walk  slowly  up  and  down  his  room,  and  sometimes 
into  the  long,  central  gallery,  where  the  likenesses  of 
the  older  Hallams  hung.  He  often  visited  them, 
pausing  before  individuals:  "I  seem  ta  be  getting 
nearer  to  them,  Richard,"  he  said,  one  day ;  "  J  wonder 
if  they  know  that  I'm  coming." 

"  I  remember  reading  of  a  good  man  who,  when 
he  was  dying,  said  to  some  presence  invisible  to  mor- 
tal eyes,  '  Go  !  and  tell  my  dead,  I  come ! '  " 


5  <  . 


-1 

1 .1 1 


ill 


■  m 


198 


The  II  all  am  Succession. 


y   V 


!         I 


"  1  would  like  to  send  a  message  to  my  father  and 
mother,  and  to  my  dear  wife,  and  my  dead  son, 
Edward.  It  would  be  a  varry  pleasant  thing  to  see  a 
face  you  know  and  loved  after  that  dark  journey." 

"  I  have  read  that 

" '  Eyes  watch  us  that  we  cannot  see, 

Lips  warn  us  that  we  may  not  kiss, 
Tliey  wait  for  us,  and  starrily 

Lean  toward  us,  from  heaven's  lattices.'  " 

"  That's  a  varry  comforting  thought,  Richard. 
Thou  sees,  as  I  draw  near  to  t'  other  life,  I  think  more 
about  it ;  and  t'  things  o'  this  life  that  used  to 
worry  me  above  a  bit,  hev  kind  of  slipped  away  from 


)) 


me. 

It  seemed  to  be  very  true  that  the  things  of  this 
life  had  slipped  away  from  him.  Eichard  expected 
him  every  day  to  speak  about  Hallam  and  Elizabeth  ; 
but  week  after  week  passed,  and  he  did  not  name  the 
estate.  As  Christmas  drew  near  he  was,  however, 
much  excited.  Lady  Evelyn  was  expected,  and  she 
was  to  bring  with  her  Antony's  son,  who  had  been 
called  after  the  squire.  He  longed  to  see  the  child, 
and  at  once  took  him  to  his  heart.  And  he  was  a 
very  beautiful  boy,  bright  and  bold,  and  never  weary 
of  lisping,  "  Gran'pa." 

One  night,  after  the  nurse  had  taken  him  away, 
the  squire,  who  was  alone  with  Richard,  said,  "  I 
commit  that  litt.e  lad  to  thy  care,  Richard  ;  see  he 
hes  his  rights,  and  do  thy  duty  by  hinu" 


The  Hallam  Succession. 


199 


"  If  his  father  dies  I  will  do  all  I  am  permitted  to 
do." 

"For sure;  I  forgot.  What  am  I  saying?  There's 
Antony  yet.     lie  wfiiitR  Hallam  hack.     What  does 

tasay?" 

"  I  should  be  glad  to  see  him  in  his  place." 
"I   believe    thee.      Thou    wilt    stand    by    Eliza- 
beth?" 

"Until  death." 

"  I  believe  thee.  There's  a  deal  o'  Hallam  in  thee, 
Richard.     Do  thy  duty  by  t'  old  place." 

"  I  will.     Yon  may  trust  me,  uncle." 

"  I  do.  That's  a'  that  is  to  be  said  between  thee 
and  me.  It's  a  bit  o'  comfort  to  hev  heard  thee 
speak  out  so  straightfor'ard.  God  bless  thee,  nephew 
Richard ! " 

He  bi'ightened  up  considerably  the  week  before 
Christmas,  and  watched  Elizabeth  and  Lady  Evelyn 
deck  his  room  with  box  and  fir  and  holy.  The 
young  mother  was  quiet  and  very  undemonstrative, 
but  she  attached  herself  to  the  dying  man,  and  he 
regarded  her  with  a  ]Htying  tenderness,  for  which 
there  appeared  to  be  no  cause  whatever.  As  she  car- 
licd  away  her  boy  in  her  arms  on  Christmas-eve,  he 
looked  sadly  after  her,  and,  touching  Elizabeth's 
hand,  said,  "Be  varry  good  to  her,  wilt  ta?" 

They  had  all  spent  an  hour  with  him  in  honor  of 
the  festival,  and  about  seven  o'clock  he  went  to  bed. 
Richard  knew  that  the  ladies  would  be  occupied  for 


1 

i 

SI 

( 

■1 

f     'i 


^lllj 


I 


!    I. 


1i; 


;    -^ 


TuK  iIallam  Slcceson. 

a  short  time  with  some  CJiristiiias  arraii<i^ements  for 
the  poor  of  tlie  village,  and  he  remained  with  the 
squire.  The  sick  man  fell  into  a  deep  sleep,  and 
Kichard  sat  quiet,  with  his  eyes  fixed  upon  the  glow- 
ing embers.  Suddenly  the  squire  spoke  out  cleui 
and  strong — "  Yes,  father,  I  am  coming!  " 

In  the  dim  chamber  there  was  not  a  movement. 
Hichard  glanced  at  the  bed.  His  uncle's  eyes  were 
fixed  upon  him.  He  went  to  his  side  and  grasped 
his  hand. 

"  Did  you  hear  him  call  me  ? " 

"  I  heard  710  one  spea^'  but  you." 

"  My  father  called  me,  Richard." 

Richard  fully  believed  the  dying  man.  He 
stooped  to  liis  face  and  said,  cheerfully,  "  You  will 
not  go  alone  then,  dear  uncle ;  I  am  glad  for  your 
sake ! " 

"  Ay  ;  it's  nearly  time  to  go.  It's  a  bit  sudden  at 
last ;  but  I'm  ready.  I  wish  Antony  lied  got  here  ; 
tell  them  to  come,  and  to  bring  t'  little  lad." 

There  was  no  disputing  the  change  in  the  face, 
the  authority  of  the  voice.  Gently  they  gathered 
around  him,  and  Elizabeth  laid  the  sleeping  child  on 
a  pillow  by  his  side.  Richard  saw  him  glance  at  the 
chubby  little  hand  stretched  out,  and  he  lifted  it 
to  the  squire's  face.  The  dying  man  kissed  it,  and 
smilingly  looked  at  Elizabeth.  Then  he  let  his 
eyes  wander  to  Richard  and  his  daughter-in-law. 

"  Good-bye,  all ! "  he  whispered,  faintly,  and  al- 


d ,' 


The  IIallam  Succession. 


201 


most  with  the  pleasant  words  upon  his  lips  he  went 
away. 

In  a  few  hours  the  Christmas  waits  came  singing 
through  the  park,  and  the  Christmas  bells  filled'  the 
air  with  jubilant  nuisic ;  but  Squire  Henry  IIallam 
had  passed  far  beyond  the  happy  clamor.  He  had 
gone  home  to  spend  tlie  Christmas  feast  with  the 
beloved  who  were  waiting  for  him;  with  the  just 
made  perfect;  with  the  great  multitude  which  no 
man  can  number. 


He 


Ill 

j  • 

i  I 

f ; 


3]S 


i       t 


I 


ill' 


I 


!li 


202 


The  IIallaai  Slccession. 


CHAPTER  YIII. 

"  We  are  hero  to  fight  the  battle  of  life,  not  to  shirk  it." 

"  The  last  days  of  my  life  until  to-day, 
What  were  they,  could  I  see  them  on  the  street 
Lie  as  they  fell.     Would  they  be  ears  of  wheat 
Sown  once  for  food,  but  trodden  into  clay  V 
Or  golden  coins  squandered  and  still  to  pay  ?  " 

"  The  only  way  to  look  bravely  and  prosperously  forward  is  never  to 
look  back." 

ANTONY  arrived  at  Ilallam  about  an  hour  after 
tlie  squire's  death.  He  was  not  a  man  of  quick 
affections,  but  lie  loved  his  father.  He  w{.j  grieved 
at  his  loss,  and  he  was  very  anxious  as  to  the  disposi- 
tion of  the  estate.  It  is  true  that  he  had  sold  his 
birthright,  but  yet  he  half  expected  that  both  his 
father  and  sister  would  at  the  last  be  opposed  to  his 
dispossession.  The  most  practical  of  men  on  every 
other  subject,  he  yet  associated  with  his  claim  upon 
Hallam  all  kinds  of  romantic  generosities.  He  felt 
almost  sure  that,  when  the  will  came  to  be  read,  he 
would  find  Hallam  left  to  him,  under  conditions 
which  he  could  either  fulfill  or  set  aside.  It  seemed, 
after  all,  a  preposterous  thing  to  leave  a  woman  in 
control  of  such  a  property  when  there  wore  already 
two  male  heirs.  And  Hallam  had  lately  grown 
steadily  upon  his  desires.     He  had  not  found  money- 


The  IIallam  Succession. 


201 


making  either  the  pleasant  or  easy  process  he  had 
imagined  it  would  be ;  in  fact,  he  had  had  more  than 
one  great  disappointment  to  contend  against. 

As  the  squire  had  foreseen,  his  marriage  with  Lady 
Evelyn  had  not  turned  out  well  for  him  in  a  financial 
way.  Lord  Eltham,  within  a  year  after  it,  found  a 
lucrative  position  in  the  colonies  for  his  son  George, 
and  advised  his  withdrawal  from  the  firm  of  "  Hallam 
&  Eltham."  The  loss  of  so  much  capital  was  a  great 
blow  to  the  young  house,  and  he  did  not  find  in  the 
Darragh  connection  any  equivalent.  No  one  could 
deny  that  Antony's  plans  were  prudent,  and  dictated 
by  a  far-seeing  policy ;  but  perhaps  he  looked  too  far 
ahead  to  rightly  estimate  the  contingencies  in  the 
interval.  At  any  rate,  after  the  withdrawal  of  George 
Eltham,  it  had  been,  in  the  main  with  him,  a  desper- 
ate struggle,  and  undoubtedly.  Lord  Eltham,  by  the 
very  negation  of  his  manner,  by  the  raising  of  an 
eye-lash,  or  the  movement  of  a  shoulder,  had  made  the 
struggle  frequently  harder  than  it  ought  to  have  been. 

Yet  Antony  was  making  a  brave  fight  for  his  posi- 
tion ;  if  he  could  hold  on,  he  might  compel  success. 
People  in  this  age  have  not  the  time  to  be  persist- 
ently hostile.  Lord  Eltham  might  get  into  power ; 
a  score  of  favorable  contingencies  might  arise ;  the 
chances  for  him  were  at  least  equal  to  those  against 
him.  Just  at  this  time  his  succession  to  the  Hallam 
estate  might  save  him.  lie  was  fully  determined  if 
it  did  come  into  his  power  never  to  put  an  acre  of  it 


I 


I 


ii 


r 


ri 


f;h 


204 


The  IIallam  Succession. 


I 


'  ! 


J       i 


in  danger;  but  it  would  represent  so  mucli  capital 
in  the  eyes  of  the  men  with  wliom  he  had  to  count 


sovereigns. 


And  in  liis  Kuspcnse  he  was  half  angry  with  Eliza- 
beth, lie  tliouglit  she  must  divine  his  feelings,  and 
might  8ay  a  word  which  would  relieve  them,  if  she 
chose.  He  watched  Richard  jealously.  He  was  sure 
that  Kichard  would  be  averse  to  his  future  wife  re- 
linquishing any  of  her  rights,  and  he  could  scarcely 
restrain  the  bitterness  of  his  thoughts  when  he  imag- 
ined llichard  master  of  ITallam.  And  Richard,  quite 
innocent  of  any  such  dream,  preserved  a  calmness  of 
manner,  which  Antony  took  to  be  positive  proof  of 
his  satisfaction  with  affairs. 

At  length  the  funeral  was  over,  and  the  will  of  the 
late  squire  made  known.  It  was  an  absolute  and  bit- 
ter (Hsappointmont  to  Antony.  "A  good-will  re- 
membrance" of  £1,000  was  all  that  was  left  him ;  ex- 
cepting the  clause  which  enjoined  Elizabeth  to  resell 
Hallam  to  him  for  £50,000,  "  if  it  seem  reasonable 
and  right  so  to  do."  Elizabeth  was  in  full  possession, 
and  her  father  had  taken  cycry  precaution  to  secure 
her  rights,  leaving  her  also  practically  unfettered  as 
to  the  final  disposition  of  the  property. 

But  her  situation  was  extremely  painful,  and  many 
openly  sympathized  with  Antony.  "  To  leave  such 
a  bit  o'  property  as  IIallam  to  a  lass!"  was  against 
every  popular  tradition  and  feeling.  Antony  was 
regarded  as  a  wronged  man ;  and  Richard  as  a  ])lot- 


;  ex- 


many 

sucli 

:ainst 

was 

])lot- 


Tl[E    IT  ALL  AM    SUCCKSSION. 


205 


tiiijO^  interloper,  who  added  to  all  his  other  faults  tliu 
unpardonable  one  of  being  a  foreigner,  "  witli  a  name 
that  no  Yorkshireman  iver  did  hev?"  Tiiis  pubhc 
sympathy,  which  he  could  see  in  every  face  and  feel 
in  every  hand-shake,  somewhat  consoled  Antony  for 
the  indifference  his  wife  manifested  on  the  subject. 

"  If  you  sold  your  right,  you  sold  it,"  she  said, 
coldly ;  "  it  ^'.'as  a  strange  thing  to  do,  but  then  you 
turn  every  thing  into  money." 

But  to  Elizabeth  and  Kichard  he  manifested  no 
ill-will.  "  Both  of  them  might  yet  be  of  service  to 
him ; "  for  Antony  was  inclined  to  regard  every  one 
as  a  tool,  which,  for  some  purpose  or  other,  he  might 
want  in  the  future. 

He  went  back  to  London  an  anxious  and  disap- 
pointed man.  There  was  also  in  the  disappointment 
an  element  of  humiliation.  A  large  proportion  of 
his  London  friends  were  unaware  of  his  true  posi- 
tion ;  and  when,  naturally  enough,  he  was  congratu- 
lated on  his  supposed  accession  to  the  Ilallam  prop- 
erty, he  was  obliged  to  decline  the  honor.  There 
was  for  a  few  days  a  deal  of  talk  in  the  clubs  and  ex- 
changes on  the  subject,  and  many  suppositions  which 
were  not  all  kindly  ones.  Such  gossip  in  a  city  lasts 
but  a  week ;  but,  unfortunately,  the  influence  is  far 
more  abiding.  People  ceased  to  talk  of  the  Ilallam 
succession,  but  they  remembered  it,  if  brought  into 
business  contact  with  Antony,  and  it  doubtless  af- 
fected many  a  transaction. 


/    V 


206 


Thk  Mallam  Succession. 


Ill  country  places  a  social  scandal  is  more  perma- 
nent and  more  personally  bitter.  Richard  could  not 
remain  many  days  ignorant  of  the  dislike  with  which 
he  was  iv<,'arded.  Even  Lord  Elrhani,  in  this  mattei-, 
had  taken  Antony's  ])art.  "lS(piire  llallam  were 
always  varry  queer  in  his  ways,"  he  said ;  "  but  it 
beats  a',  to  leave  a  property  like  llallam  to  a  lass. 
^Vhativer's  to  come  o'  England  if  t'  land  is  put  under 
women  ?     I'd  like  to  know  that ! " 

"  Ay ;  and  a  lass  that's  going  to  wed  herseP  wi'  a 
foreign  man.  I  reckon  nowt  o'  her.  Such  like  go- 
ings on  don't  suit  my  notions,  Eltham." 

Just  at  this  point  in  the  conversation  Richard 
passed  the  gossiping  squires.  He  raised  his  hat,  but 
none  returned  the  courtesy.  A  Yorkshireman  has, 
at  least,  the  merit  of  perfect  honesty  in  his  likes  and 
dislikes  ;  and  if  Richard  had  cared  to  ask  what  offense 
he  had  given,  he  would  have  been  told  his  fault  with 
the  frankest  distinctness. 

But  Richard  understood  the  feeling,  and  could 
afford  to  regard  it  tolerantly.  "  With  their  educa- 
tion and  their  inherited  prejudices  I  should  act  the 
same,"  he  thought,  "  and  how  are  they  to  know  that 
I  have  positively  refused  the  very  position  they  sus- 
pect me  of  plotting  to  gain  ?  " 

But  he  told  Elizabeth  of  the  circumstance,  and 
upon  it  based  the  conversation  as  to  their  future, 
which  he  had  been  anxiously  desirous  to  have.  "  You 
must  not  send  ine  away  again,  love,  upon  a  general 


%i'K«Mi.,^^L^l-jtJjiit>ria.-.''.-±-!iU^ . .. 


ThK    HaLLAM    ScCCEfiSION. 


207 


tense 
with 


and 
iture, 

You 
neral 


promise.  I  think  it  is  my  right  to  understand  clearly 
what  you  intend  about  Ilallam,  and  how  soon  you 
will  become  my  wife." 

She  answered  with  a  frank  affection  that  delighted 
him :  "  We  must  give  one  year  to  my  father's  mem- 
ory ;  then,  Richard,  come  for  me  as  soon  as  you  do- 
Sire. 

'*  Say  twelve  months  hc'ice." 

"  I  will  be  waiting  for  you." 

"  You  will  go  with  me  to  New  Orleans  ?  " 

"  I  will  go  with  you  wherever  you  go.  Your 
God  shall  be  my  God  ;  your  home,  my  home,  llicli- 
ard." 

"  ^ly  dear  Elizabeth  !  I  am  the  proudest  and 
happiest  man  in  the  world  ! " 

*'  And  1,  Richard  ;  am  I  not  happy,  also  ?  I  have 
chosen  you  freely,  I  love  you  with  all  my  heart." 

"  Have  you  considered  well  what  you  give  up  ? " 

"  I  have  put  you  against  it.  My  gain  is  incalcu- 
lably greater  than  my  loss." 

«  What  will  you  do  about  Ilallam  ?  " 

"  I  shall  hold  Ilallam  for  Antony ;  and  if  he  re- 
deem it  honorably,  no  one  will  rejoice  more  truly 
than  I  shall.  If  he  fail  to  do  this,  I  will  hold  it  for 
Antony's  son.  I  most  solemnly  promised  my  father 
to  save  Hallam  for  Ilallam,  if  it  was  possible  to  do  so 
wisely.  He  told  me  always  to  consult  with  Whalcy 
and  with  you ;  and  he  has  left  all  to  our  honor  and 
our  love." 


'  !' 
:    ! 


20S 


TnK    ITaM-AM    SlCCESSION. 


I 


I' 


•    « 

III '  ^ 


ii^ 


'.<:{. 


"  r  will  Avork  with  yon,  Elizabeth.  I  promised 
your  father  I  would. " 

"  [  told  Antony  that  I  only  liold  the  estate  for 
liim,  or  his;  but  he  did  not  believe  me." 

''  AV'hen  I  come  for  you,  what  is  to  be  done  with  it  ? " 

"  Vrhaley  will  take  cluir«j;-e  of  it.  The  income  will 
be  in  the  meantime  lawfully  ours.  Father  foresaw  so 
many  '  it's '  and  eontingeneies,  that  he  preferred  to 
trust  the  future  welfare  of  llallam  to  us.  As  events 
chanire  or  arise,  we  nuist  meet  them  with  all  the  wis- 
dom  that  love  can  call  forth." 

Perhaps,  considering  all  things,  Richard  had,  after 
this  explanation,  as  sure  a  hope  for  his  future  as  he 
could  e\})ect.  lie  left  llallam  full  of  happy  dreams 
and  plans,  a'-d  as  soon  as  he  I'eached  his  home  began 
the  improvements  which  were  to  make  it  beautiful 
for  his  wife.  Tt  had  its  own  charm  and  fitness;  its 
lofty  rooms,  furnished  in  cane  and  Indian  matting; 
its  scented  dusk,  its  sweet  '()rcczes,  its  wealth  of  flow- 
ers and  foliage.  AVhatever  love  could  do  to  make  it 
fair  TJichar<^  did ;  and  it  pleased  him  to  think  that 
his  wife  would  come  to  it  in  the  spring  of  the  year, 
that  the  orange-trees  would  be  in  bloom  to  meet  her, 
and  the  mocking-birds  be  pouring  out  their  fiery  lit- 
tle hearts  in  melodious  welcomes. 

Elizabeth  was  just  as  happy  in  her  preparations; 
there  was  a  kind  of  mystery  and  sacredness  about 
the'"n,  for  a  thoughtful  woman  is  still  in  her  joy,  and 
not  inclined  to  laughter  or  frivolity.     But  happy  is 


*^.L 


The  Ha  M.AM  Succession. 


209 


its 

ting; 

flow- 

tilvC  it 

til  at 

year, 

t  lier, 

[y  lit- 

lions ; 
ibout 
I,  and 

)y  is 


the  man  whose  bride  thus  dreams  of  him,  for  she 
will  bring  into  his  home  and  life  the  repose  of  a  sure 
alTeelion,  the  cheerfulness  of  a  well-considered  pur- 
pose. Their  corres])ondence  was  also  peculiarly  pleas- 
ant. Elizabeth  threw  aside  a  little  of  her  reserve.  She 
spoke  freely  to  liichard  of  all  her  plans  and  feara 
and  hopes.  She  no  longer  was  shy  in  admitting  her 
alfection  for  liim,  her  happiness  in  his  j)resence,  her 
loneliness  without  him.  It  was  easy  for  liichard  to 
see  that  she  was  gladly  casting  away  every  feeling 
that  stood  between  them. 

One  morning,  at  (he  end  of  October,  Elizabeth  j)nt 
on  her  mantle  and  l)onnet  and  went  to  see  Martha 
Craven.  She  walked  slowly,  as  a  person  walks  who 
has  an  nncertain  purpose.  Jler  face  had  asha(h)\v  on 
it;  she  sighed  freqnently,  and  was  altogether  a  dif- 
ferent Elizabeth  from  the  one  who  had  gone,  two  days 
before,  the  same  road  wnth  (piick,  firm  tread  and 
bright,  uplifted  face.  Martha  saw  her  coming,  and 
hasted  to  open  the  gate ;  but  when  Elizabeth  per- 
ceived that  Ben's  wife  was  wutliin,  she  said,  "  Nay, 
Martha,  I  don't  want  to  stay.  "Will  yon  walk  back 
part  of  the  way  with  me?" 

"  Ay,  for  sure!  I'll  nol)but  get  my  sliawl.  Miss 
Ilallam.  I  was  turninfj;  thee  over  i'  mv  mind  when 
I  saw  thee  cominj;.     Is  there  antjht  wron;;  i " 

"  AVhy  do  you  ask,  Martha  ?  " 

"  N?y,  I'm  sure  I  can't  tell ;  only  I  can  sec  fine 
that  thon  ar'n't  same  as  thou  was  yesterday." 


210 


The  IIallam  Succession. 


li 


They  were  just  entering  the  park,  and  Elizabeth 
stood  musing  while  Martha  closed  the  gates.  Then, 
after  walking  a  few  yards,  she  said,  "  Martha,  do  you 
believe  the  dead  can  speak  to  the  living  ? " 

"Ay,  I  do.  If  t'  living  will  hear,  t'  dead  will 
speak.  There's  good  men — and  John  Wesley  among 
'em — who  lived  w'  one  foot  i'  this  world,  and  one  in 
t'  other.  I  would  think  man  or  woman  hed  varry 
little  o'  t'  next  world  about  'em,  who  hed  nivver  seen 
or  heard  any  thing  from  it.  Them  that  hev  sat 
weeping  on  their  bedside  at  midnight — them  that 
hev  prayed  death  away  from  t'  cradle  side — them 
that  hev  wrestled  a'  night  long,  as  Jacob  did,  they 
know  whether  t'  next  world  visits  this  world  or  not. 
Ilev  you  scon  aught.  Miss  IIallam  ? " 

"  I  have  seen  my  father,  Martha.     Indeed  I  have." 

"I  don't  doubt  i'  not  a  minute.  He'd  hev  a  rea- 
son for  coming." 

"  He  came  to  remind  me  of  a  duty  and  to  strengthen 
me  for  it.  Ah,  Martha,  Martha !  If  this  cup  could 
pass  from  me !  if  this  cup  could  pass  from  me !  " 

"  Honey,  dear,  what  can  Martha  do  for  tliee  ?  Ivery 
Christian  some  time  or  other  comes  to  Gethsemane. 
I  hev  found  that  out.  Let  this  cup  pass.  Lord.  Didn't 
I  pray  that  prayer  mysen,  niglit  and  day  ? " 

"  Surely,  Martha,  about  Ben — and  God  let  it  pass. 
But  he  docs  not  always  let  it  jiass  when  we  ask  him." 

"  Then  he  does  what  is  happen  better — if  we  hev  t' 
heart  to  trust  him — he  sends  an  angel  to  strengthen 


» 


The  Hallam  Slcoessiun.  211 

«8  to  drink  it.      I  Jiuv   seen  tliem  as  drank  it  wi' 
thanksi^•ivinf^" 

''  O  Martiia !  I  am  very,  very  sorrowful  about  it." 
"  And  N-arry  often,  dearie,  it  is  God's  will  for  us  to 
go  forward-thou  knows  what  I  mean-to  make  a 
Calvary  of  our  breaking  hearts,  and  offer  there  t' 
sacrifice  that  is  dearest  and  hardest.  Can  ta  tell  me 
what  ta  fears,  dearie  ? " 

^  "Just  what  you  say,  Martlia,  that  I  must  pass  from 
Gethsemane  to  Calvary,  and  sacrifice  there  what  is 
my  dearest,  sweetest  hope ;  and  I  shall  have  to  bear  it 
alone." 

"  Nay,  thou  wont.  It  isn't  fair  o'  thee  to  say  that ; 
for  thou  knows  better.  My  word,  Miss  Hallam, 
tiiere's  love  above  and  below,  and  strength  all  round 
about.  If  thee  and  me  didn't  believe  that,  O  what 
a  thing  it  would  be  ! " 

"  Martha,  I  may  need  help,  the  help  of  man  and 
the  help  of  woman.     Can  I  trust  to  Ben  and  you?" 

"  I  can  speak  for  both  of  us.  We'll  wear  our  last 
breath  i'  your  service.  Neither  Een  nor  I  are  made 
o'  stuif  that  '11  shrink  in  t'  wetting.  You  can  count 
on  that.  Miss  Hallam." 

The  next  evening,  just  after  dusk,  Elizabeth  was 
standing  at  the  dining-room  wnndow.  The  butler  had 
just  arranged  the  silver  upon  the  sideboard,  and  was 
takmg  some  last  orders  from  his  mistress.  He  was  an 
old  man  with  many  infirmities,  both  of  body  and 
temper,  but  he  had  served  Hallam  for  fifty  years  and 


n 


} 


I 


h 


'4 


212 


The  Hallam  ^Succession. 


■'1  ■       I 


was  permittod  many  privileges.  One  of  these  was 
])lain  s[)ecel» ;  and  after  a  moment's  consideration  upon 
the  directions  given  liim,  he  said  : 

"  There's  summat  troubhng  them  as  are  dead  and 
gone,  Miss  llaUam.  If  I  was  thee,  I'd  hev  Mr.  An- 
tony come  and  do  liis  duty  by  t'  land.  They  don't 
like  a  woman  i'  their  shoes." 

"  What  are  you  talking  about,  Jasper  ? " 

"  I  know  right  well  what  I'm  talking  about,  Miss 
Ilailam.  What  doe&  t'  Bible  say  %  T'  old  men  shall 
see  visions — "  He  had  advanced  toward  the  window 
to  draw  the  blinds,  but  Elizabeth,  with  a  face  pale  as 
ashes,  turned  quickly  to  him  and  said : 

"  Leave  the  blinds  alone,  Jasper." 

She  stood  between  him  and  the  window,  and  he 
was  amazed  at  the  change  in  her  face.  "  She's  like 
'em  a',"  he  muttered,  angrily,  as  he  went  to  his  own 
sitting-room.  "You  may  put  a  bridle  in  \^  wind's 
mouth  as  easy  as  you'll  guide  a  woman.  If  I  hed 
been  t'  young  squire,  I'd  hev  brokken  t'  will  a'  to 
bits,  that  I  would.  '  Leave  t'  blinds  alone,  Jasper ! ' 
Highty-tighty,  she  is.  But  I've  saved  a  bit  o'  brass, 
and  I'll  '^one  stand  it,  not  I ! " 

So  little  do  we  know  of  the  motives  of  the  soul  at 
onr  side !  Elizabeth  was  very  far,  indeed,  from  either 
pride  or  anger.  But  she  had  seen  in  the  dim  garden, 
peering  out  from  the  shrubbery,  a  white  face  that 
filled  her  with  a  sick  fear.  Then  she  had  but  one 
thought,  to  get  Jasper  out  of  the  room,  and  was  quite 


4„i 


The  Uallam  Succession.  213 

unconscious  of  having  spoken  with  unnsmil  unger  or 
authority. 

When  he  had  gone  she  softly  turned  the  key  in  the 
door,  put  out  the  candles,  and  went  to  the  window. 
In  a  few  lainutes  Antony  stood  facing  her,  and  by  a 
motion,  asked  to  be  admitted. 

"  I  don't  want  any  one  to  know  I  have  been  here," 
he  said,  as  he  stood  trembling  before  the  tire.  "  It  is 
raining,  I  am  ^vet  through,  shivering,  hungry.  Eliz- 
abeth, why  don't  you  sj^eak  ?  " 

"  Why  are  you  here— in  this  way  ?  " 
She  could  hardly  get  the  words  out.     Her  tongue 
was  heavy,  lier  speech  as  difficult  as  if  slie  had  beeu 
in  some  terror-haunted  dream. 

'•  Because  I  am  going  away— far  away— forevei'.    I 
wanted  to  see  you  first." 

"  Antony  !     My  brother !     Antony,  what  have  you 
done ! "  ^ 

"  Hush,  hush.    Get  me  some  food  and  dry  clothes." 

"  Go  to  my  room.     You  are  safer  there." 

He  slipped  up  the  familiar  stair,  and  Elizabeth  soon 

followed  him.     "  Here  is  wine  and  sweet-bread.     I 

cannot  get  into  the  pantry  or  call  for  food  without 

arousing  remark.     Antony,  what  is  the  matter  ? " 

"I   am   ruined.     Eltham  and  those  Darraghs  to- 
gether have  done  it." 

"  Thank  God  !     I  feared  something  woi-se." 
"  There  is  worse.     I  have  forged  two  notes.     To- 
gether they  make  nearly  £11),()00.     The  first  falls  due 


l-\ 


II 


I! 

s 

I 

h 

[ill 

n 


i 


214 


The  Hallam  Succkssion. 


'  I 


'  I 


in  three  days.  1  have  no  liope  of  redeeming  it.  I 
am  going  to  the  other  end  of  the  world.  I  am  glad 
to  go,  for  I  am  sick  of  every  thing  here.  I'll  do  well 
yet.     You  will  help  me,  Elizabeth  ? " 

She  could  not  answer  him. 

"  For  our  father's  sake,  for  our  mother's  sake,  yea 
must  help  me  away.  It  will  be  transportation  for 
life.  O,  sister,  give  me  another  chance.  I  will  put 
the  wrong  all  right  yet." 

By  this  time  she  had  gathered  her  faculties  together. 

"  Yes,  I'll  help  you,  dear.  Lie  down  and  rest.  I 
will  go  to  Martha.  I  can  trust  the  Cravens.  Is  it 
Liverpool  you  want  to  reach  ? " 

"  No,  no ;  any  port  but  Liverpool." 

"  Will  Whitehaven  do  ? " 

"  The  best  of  all  places." 

"  I  will  return  as  quickly  as  possible." 

"But  it  is  raining  heavily,  and  the  park  is  so 
gloomy.     Let  me  go  with  you." 

"  I  must  go  alone." 

He  looked  at  her  with  sorrow  and  tenderness  and 
bitter  shame.  Her  face  showed  white  as  marble 
against  the  dead  black  of  her  dress,  but  there  was  also 
in  it  a  strength  and  purpose  to  which  he  fully  trusted. 

"  I  must  ring  for  my  maid  and  dismiss  her,  and 
you  had  better  go  to  your  own  old  room,  Antony ; " 
and  as  he  softly  trod  the  corridor,  lined  with  the  faces 
of  his  forefathers,  Elizabeth  followed  him  in  thought, 
and  sl\uddered  at  the  mental  picture  she  evoked. 


The  IIallam  Succession 


215 


80 


.  5J 
J 

3es 
It, 


Then  she  rang  licr  bell,  gave  some  trivial  order, 
and  excused  her  maid  for  the  night.  A  quarter  of  an 
hour  afterward  she  was  hastening  through  the  park, 
scarcely  heeding  the  soaking  rain,  or  the  chill,  or 
darkness,  in  the  pre-occupation  of  her  thoughts.  She 
had  flung  a  thick  shawl  over  her  head  and  shoulders, 
a  fashion  so  universal  as  to  greatly  lessen  her  chance 
of  being  observed,  and  when  she  came  to  the  park 
gates  she  looked  up  and  down  for  some  circumstance 
to  guide  her  further  steps.  She  found  it  in  the 
lighted  windows  of  the  Methodist  chapel.  There  was 
evidently  a  service  there,  and  Martha  would  be  pres- 
ent. If  she  waited  patiently  she  would  pass  the  gates, 
and  she  could  call  iier. 

But  it  was  a  wretched  hour  before  Martha  came, 
and  Elizabeth  was  wet  and  shivering  and  sick  with 
many  a  terror.  Fortunately  Martha  was  alone,  and 
the  moment  Elizabeth  spoke  she  understood,  without 
surprise  or  explanations,  that  there  was  trouble  in 
which  she  could  help. 

"  Martha,  where  is  Ben  ? " 

"  He  fctopp'd  to  t'  leaders'  meeting.  He'll  be  along 
in  a  little  bit." 

"  Can  he  bring  a  wool-comber's  suit  and  apron,  and 
be  at  the  gates,  here,  with  his  tax-cart  in  a  couple  of 
hours  ? " 

"  Yes ;  I  kaow  he  can." 

"  Martha,  can  you  get  me  some  bread  and  meat, 
without  any  one  knowing  ? " 


^4 


M\ 


li 


I 


V: 


^  i 


II 


'[J 


' 


■M' 


J 


210 


Thk  IL^LLAM  Succession. 


"  Ay,  I  can.  Mary  '11  be  up  stairs  wi'  t'  baby,  I'se 
warrant.  I'll  be  back  wi'  it,  i' iive  minutes;"  and 
she  left  Elizabeth  walking  restlessly  just  inside  the 
gates.  The  five  miinites  looked  an  hour  to  her,  but 
in  reality  ^lartha  returned  very  speedily  with  a  small 
basket  of  cold  meat  and  bread. 

"  My  brother,  Martha,  my  brother,  will  be  here  in 
two  liours.  See  that  Ben  is  ready.  He  must  be  iu 
AVhitehaven  as  soon  as  possible  to-morrow.  Don't 
forget  the  clothes." 

"I'll  forget  nothing  that's  needful.  Ben '11  be 
waiting.     God  help  you.  Miss  Ilallam  !  " 

Elizabeth  answered  with  a  low  cry,  and  Martha 
watched  her  a  moment  hastening  through  the  rain 
and  darkness,  ere  she  turned  back  toward  the  chapel 
to  wait  for  Ben. 

A  new  terror  seized  Elizabeth  as  she  returned. 
What  if  Jasper  had  locked  the  doors  ?  How  would 
it  be  possible  for  her  to  account  for  her  strange  ab- 
sence from  the  house  at  that  hour?  But  Antony 
had  also  thought  of  this,  and  after  the  main  doors 
had  been  closed  he  had  softly  nndone  a  side  en- 
trance, and  w^atched  near  it  for  his  sister's  return. 
His  punishment  begun  when  he  saw  her  wretched 
condition ;  but  there  was  no  time  then  for  either 
apologies  or  reproaches. 

"  Eat,"  she  said,  putting  the  basket  before  him ; 
"  and  Ben  will  be  at  the  gates  with  liis  tax-cart.  He 
will  take  vou  to  Whitehaven." 


I  ! 


The  Hall  am  JSuccErisiuN. 


217 


"  Can  I  trust  Ben  { " 

Shu  looked  at  liini  sadly.     "  Yon  must  liave  been 
much  wronged,  Antony,  to  doubt  the  Cravens." 
"  I  have." 

"  God  ])ity  and  pardon  yon." 

He  ate  in  silence,  glaneinir  fnrtively  at  his  sister, 
who  sat  white  and  motionless  opposite  him.  There 
was  no  light  but  the  lire-light ;  and  the  atmosphere  of 
the  room  had  that  singular  sensitiveness  that  is  ap- 
parent enough  when  the  spiritual  body  is  on  the 
alert.  It  felt  full  of  "  presence ; "  was  tremulous,  as 
if  stirred  by  wings;  and  seemed  to  press  heavily,  and 
to  make  sighing  a  relief. 

After  Antony  had  eaten  he  lay  down  upon  a  couch 
and  fell  into  an  uneasy  sleep,  and  so  continued,  until 
Elizabeth  touched  him,  and  said,  softly,  '^  It  is  time,  my 
dear.  Ben  will  be  waiting."  Then  he  stood  up'and 
looked  at  her.  She  took  his  hands,  she  threw  her  arms 
around  his  neck,  slie  sobbed  great,  heavy,  quiet  sobs 
against  his  breast.  She  felt  that  it  was  a  last  fare- 
well—that she  would  never  see  his  face  again. 

And  Antony  could  not  restrain  himself.  He  kissed 
her  with  despairing  grief.  He  made  passionate  prom- 
ises of  atonement.  He  came  back  three  times  to  kiss 
once  more  the  white  cold  face  so  dear  to  him,  and  each 
time  he  kissed  a  prayer  for  his  safety  and  pardon  off 
her  lips.  At  the  last  moment  he  said,  "  Your  love  is 
great,  Elizabeth.  My  little  boy!  I  have  wronged 
him  shamefully.'' 


J* 


ri 


sn 


fi 


I  I 

I  ' 


;! 


■     }i 


Hi 


1 '    '^1 

i    '    il          i 

i        .! 


218 


The  IIallam  Succession. 


"  lie  eliall  be  mv  child.  He  shall  never  know 
shame.  I  will  take  the  most  loving  care  of  his 
future.     You  maj  trust  him  to  me,  Antony." 

Then  he  went  away.  Elizabeth  tried  to  see  him 
from  the  window,  but  the  night  was  dark,  and  he  kept 
among  the  shrubbery.  At  such  hours  the  soul  ap- 
prehends and  has  presentiments  and  feelings  which  it 
obeys  without  analyzing  them.  She  paced  the  long 
corridor,  feeling  no  chill  and  no  fear,  and  seeming  to 
see  clearly  the  pictured  faces  around  her.  She  was 
praying ;  and  among  them  she  did  not  feel  as  if  she 
was  praying  aloud.  She  remembered  in  that  hour 
many  things  that  her  father  had  said  to  her  about 
Antony.  She  knew  then  the  meaning  of  that  strange 
cry  on  her  mother's  dying  lips — "A  far  country! 
Bring  my  son  home ! " 

For  an  hour  or  two  it  was  only  Antony's  danger 
and  shame,  only  Antony's  crime,  she  could  think  of. 
But  when  the  reaction  came  she  perceived  that  she 
must  work  as  well  as  pray.  Two  questions  first  sug- 
gested themselves  for  her  solution. 

Should  she  go  to  Whaley  for  advice,  or  act  entirely 
on  her  own  responsibility  ? 

Would  she  be  able  to  influence  Page  and  Thorley, 
the  bankers  who  held  her  brother's  forged  notes,  by 
a  personal  visit  ? 

She  dismissed  all  efforts  at  reasoning,  she  deter- 
mined to  let  herself  be  guided  by  those  impressions 
which  we  call  "  instinct."     She  could  not  reason,  but 


The  IIallam  Succession. 


219 


lUt 


she  tried  to  feel.  And  she  felt  most  dccidedl}'  that 
she  would  have  no  counselor  but  her  own  heart.  She 
would  doubtless  do  what  any  lawyer  would  call 
"  foolish  things; "  but  that  was  a  case  where  "fool- 
ishness" might  be  the  highest  wisdom.  She  said  to 
herself,  "  My  intellect  is  often  at  fault,  but  where 
Antony  and  IIallam  are  concerned  I  am  sure  that  I 
can  trust  my  heart." 

As  to  Page  and  Thorley,  she  knew  that  they  had 
liad  frequently  business  transactions  with  her  father. 
Mr.  Thorley  had  once  been  at  the  hall ;  he  would 
know  thoroughly  the  value  of  the  proposal  she  in- 
tended making  them ;  and,  upon  the  whole,  it  ap- 
peared to  be  the  wisest  plan  to  see  them  personally. 
In  fact,  she  did  not  feel  as  if  she  could  endure  the 
delay  and  the  uncertainty  of  a  correspondence  on  the 
subject. 

On  the  morning  of  the  second  day  after  Antony's 
flio-ht  she  was  in  London.  In  business  an  Eno-lishman 
throws  over  politeness.  He  says,  "  How  do  you  do  ? " 
very  much  as  if  he  was  saying,  "  Leave  mo  alone ; " 
and  he  is  not  inclined  to  answer  questions,  save, 
by  "yes"  or  "no."  Elizabeth  perceived  at  oiico 
that  tears  or  weakness  would  damage  her  cause,  and 
that  the  only  way  to  meet  Antony's  wrong  was  tu 
repair  it,  and  to  do  this  in  the  plainest  and  simplest 
manner  possible. 

"  I  am  Miss  Hallam." 

"Take  a  seat,  Miss  Hallam.** 


,  4 

!  ■    i 
1 1    • 


ll 


ii 


I     i'i 

.    I;' 


)        >\ 


220 


TnE    II  ALL  AM    SlTCEfiPION. 


"  Yoli  hold  two  notes  of  my  hrotlier  r,  one  purport- 
ing to  he  drawn  hy  Lord  Elthain  for  i:0,000;  the 
other  by  Squire  Francis  Horton  for  ilOjfiOO." 

"  Yes ;  why  '  purporting 'i '  " 

"  They  are  forgeries." 

"  My — !  Miss  Ilallani,  do  you  know  what  you  are 
saying  r' 

"I  do.  My  brotlier  has  left  EngUind.  He  is 
ruined." 

"  I  told  you,  Page  !  "  said  Thorley,  with  ;?<uch  irri- 
tation :  "  but  vou  would  believe  the  rascal." 

Elizabeth  colored  painfully,  and  Mr.  Thorley  said, 
"You  must  excuse  me,  Miss  Ilallam — " 

"  This  is  not  a  question  for  politeness,  but  busi- 
ness. I  will  pay  the  bills.  You  know  I  am  sole  pro- 
prietor of  Ilallam." 

"  Yes." 

"The  case  is  this.  If  you  suffer  the  notes  to  be 
protested,  and  the  law  to  take  its  course,  you  will  get 
nothing.  You  may  punish  Mr.  Ilallam,  if  you  suc- 
ceed in  finding  him ;  but  will  not  the  money  be  bet- 
ter for  you  ? " 

"  We  have  duties  as  citizens.  Miss  Hallam." 

"  There  has  been  no  WTong  done  which  I  cannot  put 
right.  No  one  knows  of  this  WTong  but  ourselves. 
1  might  plead  mercy  for  so  young  a  man,  might  tell 
you  that  even  justice  sometimes  wisely  passos  by  a 
fault,  might  remind  you  of  my  father  and  the  un- 
sullied honor  of  an  old  name ;  yes,  i  might  say  all 


The  IIallam  Succession. 


001 


are 


lives, 
tell 

I  by  a 

un- 

'  all 


this,  and  more,  hut  I  only  say,  will  yo\i  let  me  assume 
the  debt,  and  pay  it?" 

"  How  do  you  propose  to  do  this,  IVliss  Ilallam  V 

"  The  income  from  the  estate  is  about  £5,000  a 
year.     I  will  make  it  over  to  you." 

"How  will  you  live?" 

<'  That  is  my  affair." 

*'  There  may  be  very  unpleasant  constructions  put 
upon  your  conduct — for  it  will  not  be  understood." 

"  I  am  prepared  for  that." 

"  Will  you  call  for  our  answer  in  three  hours?" 

"  Will  you  jironiise  me  to  take  no  steps  against  my 
brother  in  the  interim  ? " 

"Yes;  we  can  do  that.  But  if  we  refuse  your 
offer,  Miss  Hallam  ?  " 

"  I  must  then  ask  your  forbearance  urdl  I  see  Lord 
Eltham  and  Squire  Ilorton.  The  Inr.niliation  will  be 
very  groat,  but  they  will  not  refusj  me." 

She  asked  permission  to  wait  in  an  outer  office,  and 
Mr.  Page,  passing  through  it  an  hour  afterward,  was 
so  touched  by  the  pathetic  motionless  figure  in  deep 
mourning,  that  he  went  back  to  his  partner,  and  said, 
"■  Thorley,  we  are  going  to  agree  to  Miss  Ilallam's 
]>roposal ;  why  keep  her  in  suspense?  " 

"  There  is  no  need.  It  is  not  her  fault  in  any 
way." 

But  Elizabeth  was  obliixed  to  remain  two  davs  in 
London  before  the  necessary  papers  were  drawn  out 
and  signed,  and  they  were  days  of  constant  terror 


J  % 


222 


The  Hallam  Succession. 


and  anii^uisli.  She  went  neither  to  Antony's  lionse, 
nor  to  liis  j)hice  of  business ;  hut  reniiiined  in  lier 
hotel,  so  anxious  on  this  subjeet,  that  slie  could  not 
force  lier  mind  to  entertain  any  other.  At  length  all 
was  arranged,  and  it  did  comfort  her  slightly  that  both 
Page  and  Thorley  were  touched  by  her  grief  and  uu' 
sellishness  into  a  s])ontaneous  expression  of  their 
Bympathy  with  her : 

"  You  have  done  a  good  thing,  Miss  Ilallam,"  said 
Mr.  Page,  "  and  Page  and  Thorley  fully  understand 
and  appreciate  your  motives ; "  and  the  kind  faces 
.and  firm  hand-clasps  of  the  two  men  brought  such  a 
look  into  Elizabeth's  sorrowful  eyes,  that  they  both 
turned  hurriedly  away  from  her.  During  her  jour- 
ney home  ishe  slept  heavily  most  of  the  way ;  but 
when  she  awoke  among  the  familiar  hills  and  dales, 
it  was  as  if  she  had  been  roused  to  consciousness  by  a 
surgeon's  knife.  A  quick  pang  of  shame  and  terror 
and  a  keen  disappointment  turmKl  her  heart  sick ; 
but  with  it  came  also  a  sense  of  i-enewed  courage  and 
strength,  and  a  determination  to  face  and  conquer 
every  trouble  before  her. 

.Tasper  met  lier,  and  he  looked  suspiciously  at  her. 
For  his  ]xirt,  lie  distrusted  all  women,  and  he  could 
not  understand  why  his  mistress  had  found  it  neces- 
sary to  go  to  London.  But  he  was  touched  in  his 
way  by  her  white,  weary  face,  and  he  busied  himself 
in  making  the  fire  burn  bright,  and  in  setting  out  her 
dinner  table  with  all  the  womanly  delicacies  he  knew 


TlIK    IlAI.LkM    SlHJCKSSION. 


22)5 


■ 

i 


Jill 


lior. 

ould 

^ccs- 
his 

isclf 
her 
lew 


pile  likcMl.  If  l']li/ul)et]i  could  only  liavo  fully  trustiMl 
liiiii,  Jasper  would  have  heiMi  true  as  steel  to  her, 
a  very  sure  and  certain  friend  ;  hut  lie  rcHcnted 
trouhk;  from  vvhicli  he  was  shut  out,  and  he  wa.s 
fihrewd  enoui^h  to  feel  tli;it  it  was  present,  thougli 
hidden  from  him. 

"  lias  any  one  heen  here  while  I  was  ahsent, 
Jasper  ? " 

"  Ay,  Squire  Fairlei<»;h  and  Miss  Fairlei<!:h  called ; 
and  Martha  Craven  was  here  this  morning.  I  think 
jyiartha  is  talking  wi'  Nancy  Uates  now — she  looked 
a  hit  i'  trouble.  It's  like  Beirs  wife  lies  lied  a  fuss 
wi'  her! " 

"  I  think  not,  Jasper.     Tell  her  T  wish  to  see  her.'" 

The  t\"o  women  stood  looking  at  cacli  other  a  mo- 
ment, Kli/aheth  trembling  with  anxiety,  Martha  list- 
ening to  the  retreating  steps  of  Jasper. 

"It  is  a'  as  you  wished.  Miss  Ilallam." 

"  Is  P,cn  back  ?  " 

"  Ay,  early  this  morning." 

"  Did  he  meet  any  one  he  knew?" 

"  He  met  Tim  Ilardcastle  just  outside  Ilallam, 
that  night.  Tim  said,  '  Thou's  late  starting  wlier- 
iver  to,  Ben;'  and  Ben  said,  'Nay,  I'm  early.  If  a 
man  wants  a  l)it  o'  good  wool  he's  go^  to  be  after  it.' 
This  morning  he  came  back  wi'  tax-cart  full  o'  wool." 

"  And  my  brother?  " 

"  lie  sailed  from  AV'^hitehaven  yesterday." 

"To  what  place?" 
15 


I 


224 


The  Hall  am  Succession. 


■  r 


"  Ben  asked  no  questions.  If  lie  doesn't  know 
wliere  Mr.  Ilallain  went  to,  he  can't  say  as  lie  does. 
It's  best  to  know  nowt,  if  you  are  asked.'' 

"O  Martha!" 

"  Hush,  dearie !  Thou  must  go  and  sleep  now. 
Thou's  fair  worn  out.     To-inorrow  '11  do  for  crying." 

But  sleep  comes  not  to  those  who  call  it.  Eliza- 
heth  in  the  darkness  saw  clearly,  in  the  silence  felt, 
the  stir  and  trouble  of  a  stormy  sea  surging  up  to  her 
feet.  It  was  not  sleep  she  needed,  so  much  as  that 
Boul-repose  which  conies  from  a  decided  mind.  Her 
attitude  toward  her  own  little  world  and  toward 
Richard  was  still  uncertain.  She  had  not  felt  able  to 
face  either  subject  as  yet. 

Two  days  after  her  return  the  papers  were  full  of 
her  brother's  failure  and  flight.  Many  liard  things 
were  said  of  Antony  Hallam ;  and  men  forgave  more 
easily  the  reckless  speculation  which  had  robbed 
them,  than  the  want  of  manly  courage  which  had 
made  him  fly  from  the  consofpiences  of  his  wrong- 
doing. It  was  a  bitter  ordeal  for  a  w^oman  as  proud 
as  Elizabeth  to  face  alone.  But  she  resented  most 
of  all  tliat  debt  of  shame  which  had  prevented  her 
devoting  the  income  of  Hallam  to  the  satisfaction  of 
her  brother's  creditors.  For  them  she  could  do  notli- 
irio',  and  some  of  them  were  wealthy  farmers  and 
traders  living  in  the  neighborhood  of  Hallam,  and 
who  had  had  a  blind  faith  in  the  integrity  and  solv- 
ency of  a  house  v.'ith  a  Hallam  at  the  head  of  it. 


t*   -^ 


TuE  Hallam  Succession. 


225 


These  men  soon  began  to  grumble  at  their  loss,  and 
to  be  quite  sure  that  "  t'  old  squire  would  nivver  hcv 
let  'em  lose  a  farthing  ;"  and  to  look  so  pointedly  at 
Miss  Hallam,  even  on  Sundays,  that  she  felt  the  road 
to  and  from  church  a  way  of  sorrow  and  humiliation. 

Nor  could  she  wholly  blame  them.  She  knew 
that  her  father's  good  name  had  induced  these  men 
to  trust  their  money  with  Antony  ;  and  she  knew, 
also,  that  her  father  would  have  been  very  likely  to 
have  done  as  they  were  constantly  asserting  he  would 
— "mortgage  his  last  acre  to  pay  them."  And  she 
could  not  explain  that  terrible  first  claim  to  them, 
since  she  had  decided  to  bear  every  personal  disgrace 
and  disappointment,  rather  than  suffer  the  name  of 
Hallam  to  be  dragged  through  the  criminal  courts, 
and  associated  witli  a  felon. 

Not  even  to  Whaley,  not  even  to  Eichard,  would 
she  tell  the  shameful  secret ;  therefore  she  must  man- 
age her  own  affairs,  and  this  would  necessarily  com- 
pel her  to  postpone,  perhaps  relincpiish  altogether, 
her  marriage.  Her  first  sorrowful  duty  was  to  wi'ite 
to  Richard.  He  got  the  letter  one  lovely  morning  in 
November.  He  was  breakfasting  on  the  piazza  and 
looking  over  some  estimates  for  an  addition  to  the 
conservatory.  He  was  angry  and  astonished.  What 
could  Elizabeth  mean  by  another  and  an  indefinite  de- 
lay ?  He  was  far  from  regarding  Antony's  failure  as 
a  never-to-be-wiped-out  stain,  and  he  was  not  mucli 
astonished   at   his   fiight.     He   had  never  regarded 


:   i 
i    ( 


]        : 


226 


TiiK  II  ALL  AM  Succession. 


Ii       ! 


i  I 


Antony  as  a  man  of  moral  courage,  or  even  of  in- 
flexible moral  principles,  and  he  failed  to  see  how 
Antony's  affairs  should  have  the  power  to  overthrow 
his  plans. 

But  Elizabeth  positiv'cly  forbid  him  to  come  ;  pos- 
itivelv  asserted  that  her  marriacre,  at  a  time  of  such 
jniblic  shame  and  disapproval,  would  be  a  thing  im- 
possible to  contemplate.  She  said  tluit  she  herself 
had  no  desire  for  it,  and  that  every  instinct  of  her 
nature  forbid  her  to  run  away  from  her  painful 
position,  and  thus  incur  the  charge  of  cowardice 
which  had  been  so  freely  attached  to  Antony.  It 
was  true  that  the  positive  sternne  s  of  these  truths 
were  softened  by  a  des})airing  tenderness,  a  depth 
of  sorrow  and  disappointment,  and  an  avowal  of 
undying  love  and  truth  which  it  was  impossible  to 
doubt.  lilt  this  was  small  comfort  to  the  young 
man.  His  first  impulse  was  one  of  extreme  weari- 
ness of  tiie  whole  affair.  He  had  been  put  off  from 
year  to  year,  until  he  felt  it  a  humiliation  to  accept 
any  further  excuses.  And  this  time  his  humiliation 
would  in  a  measure  be  a  public  one.  His  prepara- 
tions for  marriage  were  widely  known,  for  he  had 
spoken  freely  to  his  friends  of  the  event.  He  had 
spent  a  large  sum  of  money  in  adding  to  and  in  dec- 
orating his  home.  It  was  altogether  a  climax  of  the 
most  painful  nature  to  him. 

Elizabeth  had  fully  released  him  from  every  obli- 
gation, but  at  the  same  time  she  had  declared  that 


The  Hallam  Succession. 


227 


i    , 


obli- 
that 


her  whole  life  would  be  consecrated  to  his  memory. 
Richard  felt  that  the  release  was  just  as  iioininr.l  in 
his  own  case.  He  knew  that  he  never  could  love 
any  woman  but  Elizabeth  Ilallam,  and  that  just  as 
long  as  she  loved  him,  she  held  him  by  ties  no  woras 
could  annul.  But  he  accepted  her  dictum ;  and  the 
very  fullness  of  his  heart,  and  the  very  extremity  of 
his  disappointment,  deprived  him  of  the  power  to 
express  his  true  feelings.  His  letter  to  Elizabeth 
was  colder  and  prouder  than  he  meant  it  to  be ;  and 
had  that  sorrowfullj^  resentful  air  about  it  which  a 
child  wears  who  is  unjustly  punished  and  yet  knows 
not  how  to  defend  himself. 

It  came  to  Elizabeth  after  a  day  of  c.vtreme  ?uimili- 
ation — the  day  on  which  she  called  her  household 
servants  together  and  dismissed  them.  She  had 
been  able  to  give  them  no  reason  for  her  action,  but 
a  necessity  for  economy,  and  to  soften  the  dismissal 
by  no  gift.  Adversity  flatters  no  one,  and  not  a  soul 
expressed  any  grief  at  the  sundering  of  the  tie.  She 
was  even  conscious,  as  she  had  frequently  been  since 
Antony's  failure,  of  an  air  that  deeply  offended  her — 
a  familiarity  that  was  not  a  friendly  one — the  covert 
presumption  of  the  mean-hearted  toward  their  un- 
fortunate superiors.  She  did  not  hear  the  subse- 
quent conversation  in  the  servants'  hall,  and  it  was 
well  she  did  not,  for,  though  the  insolence  that  vaunts 
itself  covertly  is  hard  to  bear,  it  is  not  so  hard  as 
that  which  visibly  hurts  the  eye  and  offends  the  ear. 


•• 


!      it 
I 

i 
>  r 


i!!        I 


I 


i     i' 


228 


The  IIallam  Succession. 


"Tliiuik  goodness!"  said  Jasper,  "I've  saved  a 
bit  o'  brass,  and  miss  nuij  be  as  higbty-tiglity  as  she 
likes.  This  is  what  comes  o'  lettiu'  women  out  o'  t' 
place  God  put  'em  in." 

"  Slie's  gettin'  that  near  and  close,"  said  cook,  "  I 
wouldn't  stop  wi'  her  for  nowt.  It's  been,  'Ann,  be 
careful  here,'  and,  'Ann,  don't  waste  there,'  till  I'se 
fair  sick  o'  it.  She'll  not  get  me  to  mak'  mysen  as 
mean  as  that.     Such  like  goings  on,  I  nivver !  " 

"  And  she's  worst  to  please  as  iver  was ! "  said 
Sarah  Lister,  Miss  Ilallam's  maid.  "  I'm  sure  I 
don't  know  what's  come  over  her  lately.  She  used 
to  give  me  many  a  dress  and  bit  o'  lace  or  ribbon. 
She  gives  nowt  now.     It  isn't  fair,  you  know !  " 

"  She's  savin'  for  that  foreign  chap,  that's  what 
it  is,"  said  Jasper.  "  I'll  nivver  believe  but  what  t' 
land  goes  back  to  t'  male  heirs  some  way  or  t'  other. 
It  stands  to  reason  that  it  should ;  and  she's  gettin'  a' 
she  can,  while  she  holds  t'  keys.  She'll  mak'  a  mess 
o'  it,  see  if  she  doesn't !  " 

And  with  this  feeling  flavoring  the  household, 
Elizabeth  found  the  last  month  of  the  year  a  dismal 
and  resentful  one.  In  pursuance  of  the  plans  she 
had  laid  down  for  herself,  the  strictest  economy  was 
imperative ;  for  what  little  she  could  now  save  from 
the  plenty  of  the  old  housekeeping,  might  have  to 
see  her  through  many  days.  At  Christmas  she  bid 
"good-bye"  to  every  one  of  her  old  servants,  and 
even  this  simple  duty  had  its  trial.     She  stood  a  hard 


The  II  all  am  Succession. 


229 


^'a' 


less 

|iold, 

>inal 

she 

was 

irom 

|e  to 

bid 

and 

liard 


ten  niiiiutes  witli  the  few  sovereigns  in  her  liand 
wliich  would  be  requisite  if  she  gave  theiri  their 
usual  Christmas  gratuity.  Pride  urged  her  to  give 
it ;  prudence  told  her,  "■  You  will  need  it."  She  was 
not  fortjetful  of  the  unkind  thin(>;s  that  would  be  said 
of  her,  but  she  replaced  the  money  in  her  desk  with 
tliis  reflection,"!  have  paid  them  fully  for  their 
service ;  I  must  be  just  before  I  am  generous." 

They  left  early  in  the  day,  and  for  a  few  hours 
Elizabeth  was  the  only  soul  in  the  old  haU.  But  at 
night-fall  Ben  Craven's  tax-cart  brought  his  mother, 
and  a  few  of  her  personal  belongings,  and  then  the 
village  gossips  understood  "what  Miss  Ilallam  was 
going  to  do  with  hersen."  Martha  took  entire  charge 
of  the  hall,  and  of  all  its  treasures;  and  the  lonely 
mistress  went  to  her  room  that  night  with  the  happy 
consciousness  that  all  she  had  was  in  loving  and  pru- 
dent keeping. 

It  was  also  a  great  comfort  to  feel  that  she  was  not 
under  the  constant  prying  of  unsympathetic  eyes. 
Elizabeth  had  suffered  keenly  from  that  bitterest  of 
all  oppressions,  heart-constraint.  She  often  wished 
to  weep,  but  did  not  dare.  The  first  servant  that 
entered  the  room  was  her  master.  She  owed  him  a 
ciilm  expression  of  face  and  pleasant  words,  and  if 
she  failed  to  give  them  he  rent  her  secret  from  her. 
O  be  certain  that  every  sorrowful  soul  sighs  for  the 
night,  as  the  watchman  of  Judaea  did  for  the  morn- 
mg.     It  longs  for  the  shadows  that  conceal  its  tears ; 


i 


t  1 


ij 

I  I 

'I 

■  -I 


i.    :|! 


I  S      ,  ^! 


Hi 


230 


The  IIallam  Successiox. 


it  invokes  the  darkness  which  gave  it  back  to  it- 
self ! 

With  a  sense  of  infinite  relief  Elizabeth  sat  in  the 
still  house.  It  was  pleasant  to  hear  only  Martha's 
feet  going  to  and  fro ;  to  feel  that,  at  last,  she  was  at 
liberty  to  speak  t^r  to  be  silent,  to  smile  or  to  weup, 
to  eat  or  to  let  food  alone.  When  Martha  brought 
in  her  bedroom  candle,  and  said,  "Good-night,  Miss 
llallam ;  you  needn't  hev  a  care  about  t'  house,  I'll 
see  to  ivery  thing,"  Elizabeth  knew  all  was  right, 
and  went  with  an  easy  mind  to  her  own  rooiii. 

Christmas-eve!  She  had  looked  forward  all  the 
year  to  it.  Kichard  was  to  have  been  at  llallam  for 
Christmas.  She  had  thought  of  asking  Antony  and 
his  wife  and  child,  of  tilling  the  old  rooms  with 
young,  bright  faces,  and  of  heralding  in  her  new  life 
in  the  midst  of  Christmas  joys.  She  had  pleased 
herself  with  the  hope  of  telling  Antony  all  her  plans 
about  "the  succession.'*  She  had  dreamed  many  a 
bright  dream  of  her  bridal  in  the  old  church,  and  of 
the  lovely  home  to  which  she  was  going  soon  after 
the  New  Year.  It  was  hard  to  give  all  up !  Still 
harder  to  suffer,  in  addition,  misconstruction  and  visi- 
ble dislike  and  contempt. 

"  "Why  had  it  been  permitted  ?  "  She  fell  asleep 
with  the  question  in  her  heart,  and  was  awakened  by 
the  singing  of  the  waits.  It  was  a  chill,  windy  night, 
with  a  young  moon  plunging  wildly  in  and  out  a  sea 
of  black  driving  clouds.     Slie  sat  by  the  fire  listening 


The  IIallam  Succession.  231 

to  the  djinc.  melody,  and  thinking  of  the  Christmas- 
eve  when  Phyllis  stood  by  her  side,  and  the  ^vorld 
seemed  so  full  of  happiness  and  hope.     She  had  had 
a  letter  from  Phyllis  a  few  days  before,  a  very  lov- 
in-  comforting,  trustful  letter,  and  she  thought  she 
would  read  it  again.     It  had  been  laid  within  a  book 
which  Phyllis  had  given  her,  and  she  brou-ht  it  to 
the  fireside.     It  was  a  volume  of  poetry,  and  Eliza- 
beth  was   not   poetical.      She  could   not   remember 
imvmg  read  a  page  in  this  volume,  but  as  she  lifted 
the  letter  her  eyes  fell  upon  these  words : 

"The  priests  must  serve 
Eacli  in  his  course,  and  we  must  stand  in  turn 
Awake  with  sorrow,  in  the  temple  dim 
To  bless  the  Lord  by  liight." 

The  words  affected  her  strangely ;  she  turned  the 
page  backward,  and  read, 

"It  is  tlie  nicjht, 
And  xti  tne  temple  of  the  Lord,  not  mado 
By  mortal  hands,  the  lights  are  burning  low 
Before  the  altar.     Clouds  of  darkness  till 
The  vastuess  of  the  sacred  aisles. 

...   A  few  short  years  ago 
And  all  the  temple  courts  were  thronged  with  those 
Who  worshiped  and  gave  thanks  before  they  went 
To  take  their  rest.     Who  shall  bless 
His  name  at  midnight? 

"Lol  a  band  of  pale 
Yet  joyful  priests  do  minister  around 
TI.e  altar,  where  the  lights  are  burning  low 
In  the  breathless  night.    Each  grave  brow  wears  the  crown 


{ 

J 

t 

i 

I 

i 

( 

i. 

■■  1 

.         1 

! 

232  The  II  all  am  Succession. 

Of  scirrow,  iiml  cncli  heart  is  kept  nwako 
By  its  own  restless  pain:  for  these  are  thoy 
To  whom  the  nigiit-walch  is  app(jintcd.     St-e  I 
Tiioy  hft  their  hands  and  l)loss  God  in  tlie  ni<rht 
Wliilst  wo  are  sleepinfr:  Tlioso  to  whom  tho  King 
Has  measured  out  a  cup  of  sorrow,  sweet 
With  liis  dear  love;  yet  very  hard  to  drink, 
Aro  waking  in  liis  temple;  and  the  eyes 
That  cannot  sleep  for  sorrow  or  for  pain 
Are  lifted  up  to  heaven,  and  sweet  low  songa 
Broken  by  patient  tears,  arise  to  God. 

"The  priests  must  serve 
Each  in  his  course,  and  we  must  stand  in  turn 
Awake  witli  sorrow  in  tho  temple  dim, 
To  bless  tho  Lord  by  night.     We  will  not  fear 
"When  wo  are  called  at  midnight  by  some  struko 
Of  sudden  pain,  to  rise  and  ministL-r 
Before  tlie  Lord.     "We  too  will  bless  his  namo 
In  the  solemn  night,  and  stretch  out  our  hands  to  him." 

And  slie  paused,  and  lifted  a  face  full  of  joy  and 
confidence.  A  new  light  came  into  her  soul ;  and, 
standing  up  before  the  Lord,  she  answered  the  mes- 
sage in  the  words  of  Bunyan,  "  I  am  willing  with  all 
my  heart,  Lord ! " 


I  -h 


The  Uallaai  ISucoession. 


2'63 


and 
and, 
mes- 
ball 


CHAPTER  IX. 

"Walk  boldly  and  wisely  in  that  light  tliou  hast, 
There  is  a  hand  above  will  iiclp  thee  on." 

"I  doonio.!  thy  garments,  0  my  hope,  were  grnr 
So  far  I  viewed  thee.    Now  the  space  between 
Is  passed  at  length;  and  garmented  in  green 

Even  as  in  days  of  yore  thou  staud'st  to-day." 

"  Bless  love  and  hope.     Full  many  a  withered  vear 
W  Inrled  past  n.s,  eddying  to  its  chill  doomsdav 

And  clasped  together  where  the  brown  leaves  laV 
We  long  have  knelt  and  wept  f.,11  many  a  lea'r' 

^  et  lo  I  one  hour  at  last,  the  spring's  compeer, 
!< lutes  softly  to  us  from  some  green  by-way 
Those  years,  those  tears  are  dead  ;  but  only  they 

Bless  love  and  hope,  true  souls,  for  we  arc  here." 

rriHE  strength  that  had  come  to  Elizabeth  with  a 
J-    complete  resignation   to   the  will   of    God  was 
sorely  needed  and  tested  during  the  following  week- 
It  had  been  arranged  between  herself  and  Pao-e  and 
Thorley  that  they  should  have  the  whole  income  of 
the  Ilallam  estate,  deducting  only  from  it  the  re-ular 
cost   of  collection.     Whaley  Brothers  liad   hitherto 
had  the  collection,  and  had  been  accustomed  to  de- 
posit   all    proceeds   in    the   banking-house    of  their 
brother-in-law,  Josiah  Broadbent.     Elizabeth  had  de- 
termined to  be  her  own  collector.     The  fees  for  the 
duty  would  be  of  the  greatest  service  to  her  in  her 


■J   .,» 


:  I 


2o4 


The  IIallam  Succkhsion. 


-I 


iiiipoverislied  condition;  und  she  did  not  wisli  the 
JJroadbents  and  Whalcys  to  know  what  dispobition 
was  made  of  tlio  revenue  of  llallani. 

Ihit  the  Whaleys  were  niucli  offended  at  tlie  chanpje. 
Tliey  had  so  long  managed  the  business  of  Ilallani, 
tluit  they  said  the  supposition  was  unavoidable,  that 
Elizabeth  susj^ected  them  of  wronging  her,  us  soon  as 
tliere  was  no  man  to  overlook  matters.  They  de- 
clared that  they  had  done  thei:*  duty  as  faithfully  as 
if  she  had  been  able  to  check  thctn  at  every  turn,  and 
even  siiid  they  would  prefer  to  do  that  duty  gratis, 
rather  than  relinquish  a  charge  with  which  the  Wha- 
leys had  been  identified  for  three  generations. 

But  Elizabeth  had  reasons  for  her  conduct  ^'  'ch 
she  could  not  explain ;  and  the  transfer  was  .  .y 
made  in  a  spirit  of  anger  at  a  supposed  wrong.  It 
graved  her  very  much,  for  she  was  unused  to  dis- 
putes, and  she  could  not  look  at  the  affair  in  a  merely 
business  light.  With  some  of  the  older  tenants  her 
interviews  were  scarcely  more  pleasant.  They  had  been 
accustomed  to  meeting  one  of  the  Whaleys  at  "  The 
Eose  and  Crown  Inn,"  and  having  a  gooJ  dinner  and 
a  few  pints  of  strong  ale  over  their  own  accounts. 
There  was  no  prospect  of  "makkin'  a  day  o'  it "  with 
Miss  Ilallam ;  and  they  had,  besides,  a  dim  idea  that 
they  rather  lowered  their  dignity  in  doing  business 
with  a  woman. 

However,  Elizabeth  succeeded  in  thoroughly  win- 
ning Peter  Crag,  the  tenant  of  the  honae  farm,  and  a 


The    IIallam  Succkssiun. 


285 


ely 
ler 


,vin- 
d  a 


man  of  considerable  influence  with  men  of  his  own 
class,  lie  would  not  listen  to  any  complaints  on  the 
subject.  "  She's  a  varry  sensible  lass,"  he  said,  strik- 
ing his  fist  heavily  on  the  table ;  "she's  done  rl<^ht,  to 
get  out  o'  t'  Whaleys'  hands.  I've  been  under  their 
thumbs  mysen  ;  and  I  know  what  it  is  I'm  bound 
to  do  right  by  tScpiire  Henry's  daughter,  and  l\l  like 
to  see  them  as  is  thinking  o'  doing  wrong,  or  o'  giv- 
ing her  any  trouble — "  and  as  his  eyes  traveled  slowly 
round  the  company,  every  num  gravely  shook  his 
head  in  emphatic  denial  of  any  such  intention.  Still, 
even  with  Peter  Crag  to  stand  behind  her,  Elizabeth 
did  not  find  her  self-elected  oflicc  an  easy  one.  She 
was  quite  sure  that  many  a  complaint  was  entered, 
and  many  a  demand  made,  that  would  never  have 
been  thought  of  if  Whaley  had  been  the  judge  of 
their  justice. 

She  had  to  look  at  lier  position  in  many  lights,  and 
cliiefly  in  that  of  at  least  five  years'  poverty.  At  the 
New-Year  she  withdrew  her  balance  from  Josiah 
Broadbent's.  It  was  but  little  over  £G00,  and  this  sum 
was  to  be  her  capital  upon  which,  in  cases  of  extra 
expenditure,  she  must  rely.  For  slie  had  no  idea  of 
lettins:  either  the  house  or  grounds  fall  into  decay  or 
disorder.  She  calculated  on  many  days  of  extra  hire 
to  look  after  the  condition  of  the  timber  in  the  park, 
the  carriages  and  the  saddlery,  and  the  roofs  and  gut- 
terings  of  the  hall  and  the  outhouses.  She  had  care- 
fully considered  all  necessary  expenditures,  and  she 


V  I 


i     \ 


236 


TuE  IIallam  Succession. 


■  J 


A   l' 


!!      'i 


>M  'iin 


ii    li 


i 


liad  tried  in  imagination  to  face  every  annoyance  in 
connection  witli  her  peculiar  position. 

But  facing  annoyances  in  reality  is  a  different  thing, 
and  Elizabeth's  sprang  np  from  causes  quite  unfore- 
seen, and  from  people  whom  she  had  never  remem- 
bered. She  had  a  calm,  proud,  self-reliant  nature, 
but  such  natures  are  specially  wounded  by  small 
stings ;  and  Elizabeth  brought  home  with  her  from 
her  necessary  daily  investigations  many  a  sore  heart, 
and  many  a  throbbing,  nervous  headache.  All  the 
spirit  of  her  fathers  was  in  lier.  She  met  insult  and 
wrong  with  all  their  keen  sense  of  its  intolerable 
nature,  and  the  hand  that  grasped  her  riding  whip 
could  have  used  it  to  as  good  purpose  as  her  father 
would  have  doric,  only,  that  it  was  restrained  by  con- 
siderations which  would  not  have  bound  him. 

In  her  hom'j  she  had,  ho^'ever,  a  shelter  of  great 
peace.  Iler  neighboiV'  and  acquaintances  dropped  her 
without  ceremoii V.  The  Whalevs  had  thought  it  neces- 
sary  in  their  own  defense  to  say  some  unkind  things, 
and  to  suppose  others  still  more  unkind ;  and  it  was 
more  convenient  for  people  to  assume  the  Whaleys' 
position  to  be  the  right  one,  than  to  continue  civilities 
to  a  woman  who  had  violated  the  traditionary  customs 
of  her  sex,  and  who  was  not  in  a  position  to  return 
them.  But  in  her  home  Martha's  influence  was 
in  every  room,  and  it  always  brought  rest  and  calm. 
She  knew  instinctively  when  she  was  needed,  and 
when  solitude  was  needed;  when  Elizabeth  would 


l>* 


The  II  all  am  Succession. 


237 


was 
eys' 
ities 
01  ns 
turn 
was 
aim. 
and 
'ould 


clioose  to  bear  lier  troubles  in  silence,  and  when  she 
wanted  ^^\e  comfort  of  a  sympathizing  listener. 

Thus  the  first  nine  months  of  her  ordeal  passed. 
She  heard  during  them  several  times  from  Phyllis, 
but  never  one  line  had  come  from  Richard,  or  from 
Antony.  Poor  Antony !  He  had  dropped  as  abso- 
lutely  out  of  her  ken  as  a  stone  dropped  in  mid-ocean. 
The  silence  of  both  Richard  and  her  brother  hurt  her 
deeply.  She  thought  she  could  have  trusted  Richard 
if  their  positions  had  been  reversed.  She  was  sure 
she  would  have  helped  and  strengthened  liim  by  con- 
stant hopeful  letters.  For  a  month  or  two  she  wiitehed 
anxiously  for  a  word ;  then,  with  a  keen  pang,  gave 
up  the  Jiope  entirely.  Through  Phyllis  she  learned 
that  he  was  still  in  New  Orleans,  and  that  he  had  gone 
into  partnership  with  a  firm  who  did  a  large  Mexican 
trade.  "  He  is  making  money  fast,"  said  Phyllis, 
"  but  he  cares  little  for  it." 

It  is  one  ffood  thiuij  in  a  recrular  life  that  liabit  rec- 
onciles  us  to  what  was  at  first  very  distasteful.  As 
the  months  went  on  Elizabeth's  businoss  difficulties 
lessened.  The  tenants  got  accustomed  to  her,  and 
realized  that  she  was  neither  going  to  impose  upon 
them,  nor  yet  suffer  herself  to  be  imposed  upon.  The 
women  found  her  'Sympathizing  and  helpful  in  their 
peculiar  troubles,  and  there  began  to  be  days  wlien 
she  felt  some  of  the  pleasures  of  authority,  and  of  the 
])ower  to  confer  favors.  So  the  summer  and  autiinm 
passed,  and  she  began  to  look  toward  the  end  of  her 


.      ! 


[ 


:      I 


maa 


i  ■' ' 


i 


1  ,    ■! 


= 


li 


I 


til 


238 


The  Hall  am  Succession. 


first  year's  management.  So  far  its  record  had  been 
favorable ;  Page  and  Thorley  had  had  no  reason  to 
complain  of  the  throe  installments  sent  them. 

She  was  sitting  making  np  her  accounts  one  even- 
ing at  the  end  of  October.  It  was  quite  dark,  and 
very  cold,  and  Martha  had  just  built  up  a  fire,  and 
was  settiniic  a  little  table  on  the  hearth-ruii;  for  Miss 
Ilallam's  tea.  Suddenly  the  bell  of  the  great  gates 
rang  a  ])QiA  which  reverberated  througli  the  silent 
house.  There  was  no  time  for  comment.  The  peal 
had  been  an  urgent  one,  and  it  was  repeated  as  Martha, 
followed  by  El'zabeth,  hastened  to  the  gates.  A  car- 
riage was  standing  there,  and  a  man  beside  it,  who 
was  evidently  in  anxiety  or  fright. 

"  Come  away  wi'  you !  Don't  let  folks  die  waiting 
for  you.  Here's  a  lady  be  varry  near  it,  I  do  be 
thinking." 

The  next  moment  Martha  was  helping  him  to  carry 
into  the  house  a  slight,  unconscious  form.  As  they 
did  so,  Elizabeth  heard  a  shrill  cry,  and  saw  a  little 
face  peering  out  of  the  open  door  of  the  carriage. 
She  hastened  to  it,  and  a  child  put  out  his  arms  and 
said,  "  Is  you  my  Aunt  'Izzy  ? " 

"  Then  Elizabeth  knew  who  it  was.  "  O  my  dar- 
ling!" she  cried,  and  clasped  the  little  fellow  to  her 
breast,  and  carried  him  into  the  house  with  his  arms 
around  her  neck  and  his  cheeks  aij-ainst  hers. 

Evelyn  lay,  a  shadow  of  her  former  self,  upon  a 
sofa ;  but  in  a  short  time  she  recovered  her  conscious- 


m 


t*:-^ 


The  Hallam  Succession. 


239 


nes3  and,  opening  lior  laro-e,  sad  eyes,  let  tlictn  rest 
upon  Elizabeth,  wlio  still  held  the  boj  to  her  breast. 

"  I  am  come  to  yon,  Elizabeth.  I  am  come  here  to 
die.     Do  not  send  me  away.     It  will  not  be  lono-." 

''  Long  or  short,  Evelyn,  this  is  yonr  home.  You 
are  very,  very  welcome  to  it.  I  am  glad  to  have  you 
near  me." 

There  was  no  more  said  at  that  time,  but  little  by 
little  the  poor  lady's  sorrowfnl  tale  was  told.     After 
Antony's  failure  she  had    returned    to  her  father's 
house.     "  Bnt  I  soon    fonnd   myself  in  every  one's 
way,"  she  said,  mournfnlly.     "  1  had  not  done  well 
for  the  family— they  were  disappointed.     I  was  inter- 
fering with  my  younger  sisters— I  had  no  money— I 
was  an  eye-sore,  a  disgrace.     And  little  Harry  was  a 
tronble.     The  younger  ciiildren  mocked  and  teazed 
him.     The  day  before  T  left  a  servant  struck  him,  and 
my  mother  defended  the  servant.     Then  I  thought  of 
you.     I  thought  you  loved  the  child,  and  would  not 
like  him  to  be  ill-used  when  I  can  no  longer  love 
him." 

^  "  I  do  love  him,  Evelyn  ;  and  no  one  shall  ill-use 
him  while  I  live." 

"Thank  God!  Now  the  bitterness  of  death  is 
passed.     There  is  nothing  else  to  leave." 

The  boy  was  a  lovely  boy,  inheriting  his  father's 

physique  with  much  of  his  mother's  sensitive  refined 

nature.     He  was  a  great  joy  in  the  silent,  old  house. 

lie  canie,  too,  just  at  the  time  when  Elizabeth,  hav- 
16 


*  t 


I  \ 


if 


if 


\     .1? 


240 


The  IIallam  Succession. 


fi    ! 


1     ; 


ing  conquered  tlie  first  g-reac  pangs  of  her  sorrow, 
was  needing  some  fresli  interest  in  life.  She  adopted 
hiin  with  all  her  heart.  He  was  her  lost  brother's  only 
child,  he  was  the  prospective  heir  of  Ilallaui.  In 
him  were  centered  all  the  interests  of  the  struggle 
she  was  making.  She  loved  him  fondly,  with  a  wise 
and  provident  affection. 

It  scarcely  seemed  to  pain  Evelyn  that  he  clung  to 
Elizabeth  more  than  to  herself.  "  He  cannot  reason 
yet,"  she  said,  "and  instinct  leads  him  to  you.  He 
feels  that  you  are  strong  to  love  and  protect  him.  I 
am  too  weak  to  do  any  thing  but  die.  She  was,  in- 
deed, unable  to  bear  his  presence  long  at  a  time ;  and 
his  short  visits  to  the  silent.,  darkened  chamber  were 
full  of  awe  and  mystery  to  the  sensitive  child.  In  a 
month  it  became  evident  that  the  end  was  very  near. 
She  suffered  much,  and  Elizabeth  left  her  as  little  as 
possible.  She  was  quite  dependent  upon  her  love, 
for  Elizabeth  had  notified  the  dvino;  lady's  family  of 
her  dangerous  condition,  and  no  action  of  any  kind 
was  taken  upon  the  information. 

One  night  Evelyn  seemed  a  little  easier,  and  Harry 
stayed  longer  with  her.  I^Fartlia  came  three  times  for 
the  child  ere  she  would  consent  to  let  him  go.  Then 
she  took  the  pretty  face  in  her  hands,  gave  it  one 
long  gaze  and  kiss,  and  shut  her  eyes  with  a  painful, 
pitiful  gasp.  Elizabeth  hastened  to  her  side ;  but  she 
knew  what  was  passing  in  the  mother's  heart,  and 
presumed   not  to   intermeddle  in   her  sorrov^.     But 


'  were 
In  a 

'  near. 

tie  as 

love, 

ily  of 

kind 

JHtirry 

les  for 
Then 
it  one 
linfiil, 
Int  she 
[t,  and 
But 


The  II  all  am  Succession. 


241 


half  an  hour  afterward,  when  she  saw  heavy  tears 
steal  slowly  from  under  the  closed  eyelids,  she  said,  as 
she  wiped  them  gently  away, 

"  Dear  Evelyn,  why  do  you  weep  ?  " 

"  For  my  poor  little  wasted  life,  love ;  what  a  mis- 
take it  has  been.  I  do  not  remember  a  single  happi- 
ness in  it." 

"  Your  childhood,  Evelyn  ? " 

"  I  think  it  was  saddest  of  all.  Children  miss  hap- 
piness most.  My  childhood  was  all  books  and  lessons 
and  a  gloomy  nursery,  and  servants  who  scolded  us 
when  we  were  well,  and  neglected  us  when  we  were 
sick.  I  remember  when  I  had  scarlet  fever,  they 
used  to  put  a  little  water  and  jelly  on  a  chair  beside 
me  at  night,  but  I  was  too  weak  to  reach  theuL 
Wlmt  long  hours  of  suffering !  What  terrors  I  en- 
dured from  many  causes  !  " 

"  Forget  that  now,  dear." 

"  I  cannot.  It  had  its  influence  on  all  the  rest. 
Then  when  I  grew  to  childhood  I  heard  but  one 
thing:  'You  must  marry  well.'  I  was  ordered  to 
make  myself  agreeable,  to  consider  the  good  of  the 
family,  to  remember  my  little  sisters,  my  brothers 
who  had  no  money  and  very  few  brains.  It  was  to 
be  my  duty  to  sacrifice  myself  for  them.  Antony 
saw  me;  he  thought  I  should  be  of  service  to  him. 
My  father  thought  Antony's  business  would  provide 
for  the  younger  boys.  I  was  told  to  accept  him,  and 
I  did.    That  is  all  about  my  life,  Elizabeth.     I  had 


h 


'!! 


\    :|; 


'\ 


242 


The  Hallam  Succession. 


I  \    I 


1     :,| 


!    ,1 


my  dream  of  love,  and  of  being  loved  like  all  other 
girls,  but — " 

"  But  Antony  was  kind  to  you  ? " 

"  Yes ;  lie  was  never  unkind.  He  troubled  me 
very  little.  But  I  was  very  lonely.  Poor  Antony  ! 
I  can  remember  and  understand  now ;  he  also  had 
many  sorrows.  It  was  in  those  days  I  first  began  to 
pray,  Elizabeth.  I  found  that  God  never  got  tired 
of  hearing  me  complain ;  mother  scarcely  listened — 
she  had  so  much  to  interest  her — but  God  always 
listened." 

"  Poor  Evelyn !  " 

"  *  So  I  am  watching  quietly 

PiVery  day; 
Whenever  the  sun  shines  briglitly, 

I  rise,  and  say, 
*  Surely  it  is  the  shining  of  His  face  I ' 

I  think  he  will  come  to-night,  Elizabeth." 

"  You  have  no  fear  now '(  " 

"  It  has  gone.  Last  night  I  dreamed  of  passing 
through  a  dreary  river,  and  as  I  stumbled,  blind  and 
weak,  in  the  water,  Christ  Jesus  stretched  out  his 
hand — a  gentle,  pierced  hand,  and  immediately  I  was 
on  the  shore,  and  there  was  a  great  light  whose  glory 
awoke  me.  When  the  river  is  to  cross,  '  the  hand ' 
will  be  there." 

She  spoke  little  afterward.  About  midnight  there 
was  a  short  struggle,  and  then  a  sudden  solemn  peace. 
She  had  touched  the  hand  pierced  for  her  salvation, 


' 


The  Hallam  Succession.  2^3 

and  tlie  weary  was  at  rest.  Elizabetli  Iiad  promised 
her  that  she  should  be  laid  in  the  church-yard  at 
Hallam.  There  was  no  opposition  made  to  this  dis- 
position of  the  remains,  and  the  funeral  was  very 
quietly  performed. 

Unfortunately,  during  all  these  ciianges  the  rector 
had   been   away.      About  a   week   before  Antony's 
flight  he  was  compelled  to  go  to  the  south  of  France. 
His  healtli  had  failed  in  an  alarming  manne.'-,  and  his 
recovery  had  been  slow  and  uncertain.     Many  a  time, 
in  her  various  trials,  Elizabeth  had   longed  for  his 
support.      She  had  even  thought  that  it  might  b" 
possible  to  tell  liim  the  full  measure  of  h  r  s^orrow. 
At  Evelyn's  funeral  she  missed  him  very  i  iuch.     She 
remembered  how  tender  and  full   of  grace   all  his 
ministrations  had  been  at  her  father's  death.     Hut 
the  poor  little  lady's  obsequies  were  as  lonely  and  sad 
as  her  life.    She  was  only  the  wife  of  an  absconding 
debtor.     She  had  died  under  the  roof  of  a  woman 
who  had  seriously  olfended  society  by  not  taking  it 
into  her  confidence. 

It  was  a  cold,  rainy  day;  there  was  nothing  to  be 
gained  in  any  respect  by  a  wretched  stand  in  the  wet 
sodden  grave-yard.  Even  the  curate  in  charge  hurried 
over  the  service.  The  ceremony  was  so  pitiably  deso- 
late that  Elizabeth  wept  at  its  remembrance  for 
many  a  year ;  and  between  her  and  Martha  it  was 
always  a  subject  of  sorrowful  congratulation,  that  lit- 
tle Harry  had  been   too   ill   with   ■.   sore   throat  to 


1  I 


5     . 


'  i 


t ...  I 


2U 


The  Hallam  Succession. 


!i 


i;  p 


go  to  the  funeral ;  and  had,  therefore,  not  witnessed 
it. 

The  wronged  have  always  a  hoj)e  that  as  time 
passes  it  will  put  the  wrong  right.  But  it  was  get- 
ting toward  the  close  of  the  third  year,  and  Eliza- 
beth's trial  was  no  lighter.  There  had  been  varia- 
tions in  it.  Sometime  during  the  first  year  an  opin- 
ion had  gained  ground,  that  she  was  saving  in  order 
to  pay  her  brother's  debts.  As  there  were  many  in 
the  neighborhood  interested  in  such  a  project,  this 
report  met  witli  great  favor ;  and  while  the  hope  sur- 
vived Elizabeth  was  graciously  helped  in  her  task  of 
self-denial  by  a  lifted  hat,  or  a  civil  good-morning. 
But  when  two  years  had  passed,  and  no  meeting  of 
the  creditors  had  been  called,  hope  in  this  direction 
turned  to  unreasonable  ani^er. 

"  She  must  hev  saved  nigh  unto  £10,000.  Why, 
then,  doesn't  she  do  t'  ri<A\t  thinoj  wi'  it  ? " 

"  She  sticks  to  t'  brass  like  glue ;  and  it's  none  hers. 
I'm  fair  cap't  wi'  t'  old  squire.  I  did  think  he  were 
an  honest  man;  but  I've  given  up  that  notion  long 
sin'.  He  knew  well  enou2:h  what  w^ere  cominij^,  and 
60  he  left  Ilallam  to  t'  lass.  It's  a  black  shame  a' 
through,  thet  it  is!" — and  thus  does  the  shadow  of 
sin  stretch  backward  and  forward ;  and  not  only 
wrong  the  living,  but  the  dead  also. 

In  the  summer  after  Lady  Evelyn's  death  the  rec- 
tor returned.  Elizabeth  did  not  hear  of  his  arrival 
for  a  few  days,  and  in  those  days  the  rector  heard 


L 


time 


The  Hallam  Succession.  245 

many  tliiiigs  about  Elizabeth.  He  was  pained  and  as- 
tonished ;  and,  doubtless,  his  manner  was  influenced  by 
liis  feelings,  although  he  had  no  intention  of  allowing 
simple  gossip  to  ])rejudiee  him  against  so  old  a  friend 
as  Eliza!)eth  llallam.  Ijut  she  felt  an  alien  atmos- 
phere, and  it  checked  and  chilled  her.  If  she  had 
had  any  disposition  to  make  a  confidant  of  the  rector, 
after  that  visit  it  was  gone.  "  His  sickness  and  the 
inHux  of  new  lives  and  new  elements  into  his  life  has 
changed  him,"  she  thought;  -J  will  not  tell  him  any 
thmo;.'' 

On  the  contrary,  he  expected  her  confidence.     Jle 
called  upon  her  several  times  in  this  expectation  ;  but 
each  time  there  was  more  ])erceptible  an  indefinable 
something  which  prevented  it.    In  fact,  he  felt  morti- 
fied by  Elizabeth's  reticence.     People  liad  confidently 
expected  that  Miss  Hallam  would  explain  lier  conduct 
to  him;  some  had  even  said,  they  were  ready  to  re- 
sume friendly  relations  with  lier  if  the  rector's  atti- 
tude in  the  matter  appeared  to  warrant  it.     It  will 
easily  be  seen,  then,  that  the  return  of  her  old  friend, 
instead    of    dissipating    the    prejudice    against    her, 
deepened  it. 

The  third  year  was  a  very  hard  and  gloomy  one. 
It  is  true,  slie  had  paid  more  than  half  of  Page  and 
Thorley's  claim,  and  that  the  estate  was  fully  ^:a  pros- 
perous as  it  had  ever  been  in  her  father's  time.  But 
socially  she  felt  herself  to  be  almost  a  pariah.  The 
rich  and  prosperous  ignored  her  existence ;  and  the 


I  I 


'I 


':v% 


24G 


The  Hallam  Succession. 


I   j  > 


i     41 


J-:  •• 


f    ' 


!; 


])(j(>r  ?  AVell,  there  was  a  eliaiige  lliere  tliat  pained 
Iier  eqiuilly.  If  slie  visited  tlieir  cottages,  and  was 
l>leasaiit   and   generous,  they  thought    little   of   tlie 


grace. 


"  There  must  be  summat  wrong  wi'  her,  or  all  t' 
gentlefolks  wouldn't  treat  her  like  t'  dirt  under  tlieir 
feet,"  said  one  old  crone,  after  pocketing  a  shilling 
with  a  courtsey. 

"Ay,  and  she  wouldn't  come  sniilin' and  talkiu' 
here,  if  sheVl  any  body  else  to  speak  to.  Tm  a  ])t)or 
wonuin,  Ijetty  Tibbs,  but  I'm  decent,  and  I'm  none 
set  up  wi'  Miss'  fair  words — not  I,  indeed  !  "  said  an- 
other; and  though  people  may  not  actually  hear  the 
syllables  which  moutli  such  sentiments,  it  seems 
really  as  if  a  bird  of  the  air,  or  something  still  more 
subtle,  did  carry  the  nuitter,  for  the  slandered  person 
instinctively  knows  the  slanderer. 

And  no  word  of  regret  or  of  love  came  from  An- 
tony to  lighten  the  burden  she  was  carrying.  If  she 
had  only  known  that  he  was  doing  well,  was  en- 
deavoring to  redeem  tlie  past,  it  would  have  been 
some  consolation.  Phyllis,  also,  wrote  more  seldom. 
She  had  now  two  children  and  a  large  number  of 
servants  to  care  for,  and  her  time  was  HUed  with 
many  sweet  and  engrossing  interests.  Besides,  though 
she  fully  believed  in  Elizabeth,  she  did  also  feel  for 
her  brother.  She  thought  liichard,  at  any  rate,  ought 
to  have  been  tieated  with  full  confidence,  and  half- 
feared  that  pride  of  her  family  and  position  was  at 


The  Hallam  Succession. 


247 


An- 

she 
en- 
)een 
dom. 
of 


tlie  bottom  of  Elizabeth's  severance  of  tlie  enungo- 
nieiit.  Iliiiiian  nature  is  full  of  coniplexitie.^,  and 
no  Olio  })robablj  ever  acts  from  one  pure  and  simple 
motive,  iiowever  nmch  tliey  may  believe  tli(>y  do. 

]\[artba  Craven,  however,  was  always  true  and  c:en- 
tle,  and  if  any  thin<^  more  respectful  than  in  Eliza-, 
beth's  bri^^'htest  days;  and  for  this  blessiiiir  gjie  was 
very  grateful.  And  the  boy  grew  ra])idly,  and  was 
very  handsome  and  interesting;  and  no  malignity 
could  darken  the  sweet,  handsome  rooms  or  the  shady 
flower-garden.  Iiowever  unpleasant  her  day  among 
the  tenants  mi<;ht  have  l)eon,  she  could  close  her 
doors,  and  shut  out  the  world,  and  feel  sure  of  love 
and  comfort  witliin  her  own  gates. 

Things  "were  in  this  condition  in  tlie  spring  of 
1813.  But  more  than  £1(),0()0  had  been  paid,  and 
Elizabeth  looked   with  clear  eves  toward  tlie  end  of 

I. 

her  task.  Socially,  she  was  as  far  aloof  as  ever  ;  per- 
haps more  so,  for  during  the  winter  she  had  found 
her  courage  often  fall  her  reijardiny:  the  church 
services.  The  walk  M'as  lont!;  on  wet  oi*  cold  davs ; 
the  boy  was  subject  to  croupy  sore  throat;  and  her 
heart  sank  at  the  ])rospect  of  the  social  ordeal  through 
which  slie  must  pass.  It  may  be  doubted  whether 
people  are  really  ever  made  better  by  pelty  slights 
and  undeserved  scorn.  Elizabeth  had  tried  the  dis- 
cipline for  three  years,  and  every  Sabbath  evening 
her  face  bm'ned  with  the  same  angei-,  and  her  lieai't 
was  full  of  the   same  resentment.     So,  it  had  often 


'If 


218 


The  HalliUi  Successiox. 


',  1 


I    i 


,1    ,1 


ronie  to  pass  durinij;  tlie  winter  tliiit  she  liad  staid  at 
lioinc  upon  inclement  days,  and  read  the  service  to 
Iier  ncpliew  and  lierself,  and  talked  \vith  the  child 
aljont  tlie  hoys  of  the  Old  and  New  Teistaincnts. 

And  it  was  noticeable,  as  indicatin<j  the  thon<^htful 
lovinix  character  of  little  Ilarrv,  that  of  all  the  band 
he  envied  most  the  lad  who  had  given  his  barley 
loaves  to  the  Saviour,  lie  woidd  listen  to  Elizabeth's 
description  of  the  green,  desert  place,  and  the  weary 
multitudes,  and  tlie  calm  evening,  and  then  begin  to 
wonder,  in  his  childish  words,  "How  the  Saviour 
looked  "  at  the  boy — what  he  said  to  him — to  fancy 
the  smile  of  Jesus  and  the  touch  of  the  Divine  hand, 
and  foMowing  out  his  thought  would  say,  softly, 
"How  that  little  boy's  heart  nuist  have  ached  when 
tliev  crucilied  him !  Wliat  would  he  do,  aunt?  Does 
the  Bible  sav  any  nnore  about  him  '" 

Eut  sweet  as  sucl  Saooaths  were  to  both  woman 
and  child,  Elizabeth  '•■new  that  they  deepened  the 
unfavorable  opinion  about  her,  and  she  was  sure  that 
they  always  grieved  her  old  friend.  So,  one  Monday 
morning  after  an  absence  from  church,  she  took  the 
path  through  the  park,  determined  to  call  upon  him, 
and  explain,  as  far  as  she  was  able,  her  reasons. 

It  was  a  lovely  dav,  and  the  child  walked  bv  her 
side,  or  ran  hither  and  thither  after  a  bhe-be'l,  or  a 
primrose;  stopping  sometimes  behind,  to  watch  a 
pair  of  building  robins,  or  running  on  in  advance  after 
a  rabbit.     There  was  in  Elizabeth's  heart  a  certain 


■I       a 


The  II/llam  Succession. 


240 


when 
Does 


calm  liappiiK'ss,  wliic;].  .-lie  did  ,H,t  analyze,  but  was 
content  to  feel  and  enjoy.  At  a  turn  in  the  avenue 
she  saw  the  rector  approachiiiir  Ikt,  and  there  was 
somethin^r  in  his  appearance,  even  in  tlie  distance, 
which  annoyed  and  irritated  her.  "  lie  is  coming 
to  reprove  me,  of  course,"  she  thought;  and  she 
mentally  resolved  for  once,  to  defend  herself  against 
all  assertions. 

"  Good-morning,  Miss  Ilallam ;  I  was  coming  to 
see  you." 

"  And  I  was  going  to  the  rectory.  As  the  park  is 
so  pleasant,  will  you  return  with  me  ? " 

"  Yes.  I  will.  Have  you  any  idea  why  I  was  com- 
ing to  see  yuu?" 

"  I  have.  It  was  to  say  something  unjust  or  cruel, 
I  suppose.  No  one  ever  comes  to  see  me  for  any 
other  purpose." 

"Whose  fault  is  that?" 

"  Not  mine.     I  have  done  no  wrong  to  any  one." 
"  What  has  your  life  been  during  the  last  three 
years?  '• 

"  Free  from  all  evil.  My  worst  enemy  cannot 
accuse  me." 

^  "  Wliy  have  you  closed  the  hall  ?  Given  up  all  the 
kind  and  hospitable  ways  of  your  ancestors  ?  Shut 
yourself  up  with  one  old  woman  ?  " 

"  Because  my  conscience  and  my  heart  approves 
what  I  have  done,  and  do.  Can  I  not  live  as  I 
choose?    Am  I  obliged  to  give  an  account  of  my- 


U 


•':^  J 


250 


The  IIallxUi  Succkssion. 


^t. 


r  i 


ii  ,1    H 


self,  and  of  my  motives,  to  every  man  and  woman 
in  tlie  parish  ?  O !  I  have  been  cruelly,  shamefully 
used ! "  she  said,  standing  suddenly  still  and  lifting 
her  face,  "tjrod  alone  knows  how  cruelly  and  how 
unjustly ! " 

"  My  dear  child,  peojile  know  nothing  of  your 
motives." 

"  Then  they  are  wicked  to  judge  without  knowl- 
edge." 

"  Do  you  not  owe  society  something  ? " 

"  It  has  no  right  to  insist  that  I  wear  my  heart 
upon  niy  sleeve." 

''  I  was  your  father's  friend ;  I  have  known  you 
fi'om  your  birth,  Elizal)eth  IJallam — " 

"  Yet  you  listened  to  what  every  one  said  against 
me,  and  allowed  it  so  far  to  influence  you  that  I  was 
conscious  of  it,  and  thongli  I  called  on  you  purposely 
to  seek  your  help  and  advice,  your  manner  closed  my 
lips.  You  have  known  me  from  my  birth.  You 
>  new  and  loved  my  father.  O,  sir,  could  you  not 
have  trusted  me  ?  If  I  had  been  your  friend's  son, 
instead  of  his  daughter,  you  would  have  done  so ! 
You  would  have  said  to  all  evil  speakers,  'Mr.  Ilal- 
1am  has  doubtless  just  reasons  for  the  economy  he  is 
l^ractlcing.'  But  because  I  was  a  woman,  I  was  sus- 
pected;  and  every  thing  I  could  not  explain  was 
necessarily  wicked.  O,  how  your  doubt  has  wounded 
me !  What  wrong  it  has  done  me  !  How  sorry  you 
would  be  if  you  knew  the  injustice  you  have  done 


•■    1 1 


how 


The  IIallam  Succession.  251 

the  child  of  your  old  friend— the  woman  jou  bap- 
tized and  coniinned,  and  never  knew  ill  of ! " 

Standing  still  with  her  hand  upon  his  arm  she 
poured  out  her  com])laints  with  passionate  earnest- 
ness; her  face  flushed  and  lifted,  her  eyes  misty  w'th 
unshed  tears,  her  tall  erect  form  quivering  with  emo- 
tion. 

And  as  the  rector  looked  and  listened  a  swift  change 
came  over  his  face,  lie  laid  his  hand  upon  hers. 
When  she  ceased,  he  answered,  promptly: 

"  Miss  IIallam,  from  this  moment  I  believe  in  you 
with  all  my  heart.  I  believe  in  the  wisdom  and 
purity  of  all  you  have  done.  Whatever  you  may  do 
in  the  future  I  shall  trust  in  you.  Late  as  it  is,  take 
my  sincere,  my  warm  sympathy.  If  you  choose  to 
make  me  the  sharer  of  your  cares  and  sorrows,  you 
will  find  me  a  true  friend  ;  if  you  think  it  right  and 
best  still  to  preserve  silence,  I  am  equally  satisfied  of 
your  integrity." 

Then  he  put  her  arm  within  his,  and  talked  to  hor 
so  wisely  and  gently  that  Elizabeth  found  herself 
weeping  soft,  gracious,  healing  tears.  She  brought 
him  once  more  into  the  squire's  familiar  sitting-room. 
Slie  spread  for  him  every  delicacy  she  knew  he  liked. 
She  took  him  all  over  the  house  and  grounds,  and 
made  him  see  that  every  thing  was  kept  in  its  old 
order.  lie  asked  no  (questions,  and  she  volunteered 
no  information.  IJut  he  did  not  expect  it  at  that 
time.     It  would  not  have  been  like  Elizabeth  IIallam 


III 


il  i 


252 


The  Hallam  Succession. 


S        5 


h       3 


n 


f     I 


to  spill  over  either  her  joys  or  her  sorrows  at  the  first 
offer  of  sympatliy.  Her  nature  was  too  self-contained 
for  snch  effusiveness.  But  none  the  less  the  rector 
felt  that  the  cloud  had  vanished.  And  he  wondered 
that  he  had  ever  thought  her  capable  of  folly  or 
wrong — that  he  had  ever  doubted  her. 

After  this  he  was  every-where  her  chani|)ion.  He 
was  seen  going  to  the  hall  with  his  old  regularity. 
He  took  a  great  liking  for  the  child,  and  had  him 
fre»|uently  at  the  rectory.  Very  soon  people  began 
to  say  that  "  Miss  Hallam  must  hev  done  about  t' 
right  thing,  or  t'  rector  wouldn't  iver  uphold  her;" 
and  no  one  doubted  but  that  all  had  been  fully 
explained  to  him. 

Yet  it  was  not  until  the  close  of  the  year  that  the 
subject  was  again  named  between  them.  The  day 
before  Christmas,  a  cold,  snowy  day,  he  was  amazed 
to  see  Elizabeth  coming  through  the  rectory  garden, 
fighting  her  way,  with  bent  head,  against  the  wind 
and  snow.  At  first  he  feared  Harry  was  ill,  and  he 
went  to  open  the  door  himself  in  his  anxiety  ;  but  one 
glance  into  her  bright  face  dispelled  his  fear. 

"  Why,  Elizabeth,  whatever  has  brought  you 
through  such  a  storm  as  this  ? " 

"  Something  pleasant.  I  meant  to  have  come  yes- 
terday, but  did  not  get  what  I  wanted  to  bring  to 
you  until  this  morning.  My  dear,  dear,  old  friend  ! 
Rejoice  with  me  !  I  am  a  free  woman  again.  I  have 
paid  a  great  debt  and  a  just  debt ;  one  that,  unpaid. 


fully 


The  Hall  am  Succession.  253 

would  have  stained  forever  the  name  we  both  love  and 
honor.  O  thank  God  with  me !  tlie  Lord  God  of 
my  fathers,  who  has  strengthened  my  heart  and  my 
hands  for  the  battle ! " 

And  though  she  said  not  another  word,  he  under- 
stood, and  he  touched  her  brow  reverently,  and  knelt 
down  with  her,  and  the  thin,  tremulous,  aged  voice, 
and  the  young,  joyful  one,  recited  together  the  glad 
henedictus : 

"Blessed  be  the  Lord  God  of  Israel ;  for  he  hath  visited  and  re- 
deemed  liis  people, 

"And  hath  raised  up  a  horn  of  salvation  for  us  in  the  house  of  his 
servant  David ; 

^  "  As  he  spa!.3  by  the  mouth  of  his  holy  prophets,  which  have  been 
since  the  world  began  : 

"That  we  should  be  saved  from  our  enemies,  and  from  the  hand 
of  all  that  hate  us  ; 

"To  perform  the  mercy  promised  to  our  fathers,  and  to  remem- 
ber his  holy  covenant ; 

"  The  oath  which  he  sware  to  our  father  Abraham, 
"  That  he  would  grant  unto  us,  that  we,  being  delivered  out  of  the 
han(i  of  our  enemies,  might  serve  him  without  fear, 

"In  holiness  muI  righteousness  before  him,  all  the  davs  of  our 
life. 

"And  thou,  child,  Shalt  be  called  the  prophet  of  the  Hi-hest  •  for 
thou  Shalt  go  before  the  face  of  the  Lord  to  prepare  his  ways; 

"  To  give  knowledge  of  salvation  unto  his  people  by  the  remission 
of  their  sins, 

"Through  the  tender  mercy  of  our  God;  whereby  the  Diivsprin- 
from  on  high  hath  visited  us,  '  " 

"  To  give  light  to  them  that  sit  in  darkness  and  in  the  shadow  of 
death,  to  guide  our  feet  into  the  way  of  peace." 

And  Elizabeth  rose  up  with  a  face  radiant  and 
peaceful ;  she  laid  upon  the  table  £100,  and  said,  "  It 


^4  \ 


n 


■^T" 


i 


254 


The  Hallam  Succession. 


is  for  the  poor.  It  is  mj  thank-offering.  I  sold  the 
bracelet  my  brother  gave  me  at  his  marriage  for  it. 
I  give  it  gladly  with  my  whole  heart.  I  have  much 
to  do  yet,  but  in  the  rest  of  my  work  I  can  ask  yon 
for  advice  and  sympathy.  It  will  be  a  great  help 
and  comfort.  V  ill  you  come  to  the  hall  after  Christ- 
mas and  speak  with  me,  or  shall  I  come  here  and  see 
you  ? " 

"  I  will  come  to  the  hall ;  for  I  have  a  hook  for 
Ilarrv,  and  I  wish  to  ffive  it  to  him  myself." 

The  result  of  this  interview  was  that  the  rector 
called  upon  the  firm  of  Whaley  Brotlicrs,  and  that 
the  elder  Whaley  called  upon  Elizabeth.  He  at- 
tempted some  apology  at  first,  but  she  graciously  put 
it  aside  :  "  There  has  been  a  mistake,  Mr.  AYhaley. 
Let  it  pass.  I  wish  you  to  communicate  M'itli  all  the 
creditors  of  the  late  firm  of  Antony  Hallam.  Every 
shilling  is  to  be  paid  and  the  income  of  the  estate 
will  be  devoted  to  it,  with  the  exception  of  the  home 
farm,  the  rental  of  which  I  will  reserve  for  my  own 
necessities,  and  for  keeping  Hallam  in  order." 

And  to  Martha  Elizabeth  said  :  "  We  are  going  to 
live  a  little  more  like  the  hall  now,  Martha.  You 
sliall  have  two  girls  to  help  yju,  and  Peter  Crag 
shall  bring  a  pony  for  Harry,  and  we'll  be  as  happy 
as  never  was  again  !  "We  have  had  a  bit  of  dark,  hard 
road  to  go  over,  but  the  end  of  it  has  come.  Tliank 
God ! " 

"It's  varry  few  as  find  any  road  through  life  an 


: 


The  Hallam  Succession.  255 

easy  one ;  t'  road  to   heaven  is  by  Weeping  Cross 
Miss  Hallam." 

"  I  don't  know  why  that  should  be,  Martha.  If 
any  have  reason  to  sing,  as  they  go  through  life,  they 
should  be  the  children  of  the  King." 

"  It's  t'  sons  o'  t'  King  that  liev  t'  battles  to  fight 
and  t'  prayers  to  offer,  and  t'  sacrifices  to  mak'  for  a' 
t'  rest  o'  t'  world,  I  think.  What  made  John  Wes- 
ley, and  the  men  like  him,  be  up  early  and  late,  be 
stoned  by  mobs,  and  perish'd  wi'  cold  and  hunger  ? 
Not  as  they,  needed  to  do  it  for  their  own  profit,  but 
just  because  they  were  the  sons  o'  t'  King,  they 
couldn't  help  it.  Christians  mustn't  complain  of  any 
kind  o'  a  road  that  tak's  'em  home." 

"But  sometimes,  Martha,  it  seems  as  if  the  other 
road  was  so  smooth  and  pleasant." 

"  Two  roads  are  a  bit  different— t'  road  to  Babylon 
and  t'  road  to  Jerusalem  aren't  t'  same.  You  may 
go  dancin'  along  t'  first ;  the  last  is  often  varry  narrow 
and  steep." 

"  But  one  can't  help  wondering  why." 

"  If  it  wasn't  narrow,  and  varry  narrow,  too.  Miss 

Hallam,  fenced  in,  and   watchmen  set  all  along  it, 

we'd  be  strayin'  far  and  near,  and  ivery  one  o'  us 

going  our  own  way.     There  isn't  a  church  I  knows 

of—not  even  t'  people  called  Methodists— as  mak's  it 

narrow  enough  to  prevent  lost  sheep.     But  it  isn't  all 

t'  Hill  o'  Difticulty,  Miss  Hallam.     It  isn't  fair  to 

say  that.      There's   many  an  arbor  on  t'  hill-side, 

A   9 


H  I 


'  .4 


i 


256 


The  Hallam  Succession. 


,>V 


'.  I 


and  many  a  House  Beautiful,  and  whiles  we  may 
bide  a  bit  wi'  t'  shepherds  on  t'  Delectable  Mount- 
ains. And  no  soul  need  walk  alone  on  it.  That's 
t'  glory  and  t'  comfort !  And  many  a  time  we're 
strengthened,  and  many  a  time  we're  carried  a  bit  by 
unseen  hands." 

"  Well,  Martha,  those  are  pleasant  thoughts  to  sleep 
on,  and  to-morrow — to-morrow  will  be  another  day." 

"  And  a  good  one,  Miss  Hallam  ;  anyhow,  them  as 
bodes  good  are  t'  likeliest  to  get  it.     I  do  think  that." 

So  Elizabeth  went  to  sleep  full  of  pleasant  hopes 
and  aims.  It  had  always  been  her  intention  to  pay 
every  penny  that  Antony  Hallam  owed ;  and  she  felt 
a  strange  sense  of  delight  and  freedom  in  the  knowl- 
edge that  the  duty  had  begun.  Fortunately,  she  had 
in  this  sense  of  performed  duty  all  the  reward  she 
asked  or  expected,  for  if  it  had  not  satisfied  her,  she 
would  have  surely  been  grieved  and  disappointed 
with  the  way  the  information  was  generally  received. 
No  one  is  ever  surprised  at  a  bad  action,  but  a  good 
one  makes  human  nature  at  once  look  for  a  bad  mo~ 
tive  for  it. 

"She's  found  out  that  it  wont  pay  her  to  hold  on 
to  other  folks'  money.  AVliy-a !  nobody  notices  her, 
and  nivver  a  sweetheart  comes  her  way." 

"  I  thought  we'd  bring  her  to  terms,  if  we  nobbut 
made  it  hot  enough  for  her.  Bless  you,  Josiah! 
women  folks  can't  live  without  their  cronying  and 
companying." 


'3u 


I  HE  Hallam  Succession.  2.->7 

"It's  nobbut  right  she  should  pay  ivery  penny, 
and  I  tell'd  l>er  so  last  time  I  met  J.er  on  ilaUam 
Uoinmon." 

"Didta?  Why,  thou  hed  gumption!  Whativer 
did  she  say  to  thee  ? " 

"She  reddened  up  like  t'  old  squire  used  to,  and 
her  eyes   snapped   like   two   pistols;   and   says  she, 
Mannaduke  Ilalcroft,  you'll  get  every  farthing  o' 
your  money  when  I  get  ready  to  pay  it.' " 

"Thank  you,  miss,"  says  I,  "all  the  same,  I'll  bo 
bold  to  n>ention  that  I've  waited  going  on  five  years 
lor  it."  '' 

"'And  you  may  wait  iive  years  longer,  for  there 
«re  others  besides  yon,'  says  she,  as  pcacocky  as  anv 
Inng  'but  you'll  get  it;'  and  wi'  that,  she  laid 
her  whip  across  her  mare  i„  a  way  as  made  me  feel 
.t  were  across  my  face,  and  went  away  so  quick  I 
couldn't  get  another  word  in.  Eut  women  will  hev 
t  last  word,  if  tliey  die  for  't." 

"  If  she'll  pay  t'  brass,  she  can  hev  as  many  wor.ls 
as  she  wants;  I'm  none  flayed  for  any  wou.an's 
tongue— not  I,  indeed." 

And  these  sentiments,  expressed  in  fo,-ms  rnr,ro  or 
less  polite,  were  the  prevailing  ones  regarding  Mi.s. 
I  a  ams  tardy  aeknowhdgment  of  the  debt  of 
Ilallam  to  the  neighbornood.  Many  were  the  dis- 
cussions in  fashionable  drawing-rooms  as  to  the  ,.ro. 
priety  of  rewarding  the  justice  of  Elizabeth's  action 
by  bows,  or  smiles,  or  calls.     But  privately  few  peo- 


;,'   f. 

■  ■''    s 
i5  «. 


J 


(, 


m 


258 


Thk  IIallam  Succession. 


' , 


/!. 


.'.'     1 


'i     i      t| 


I 


plc  were  really  inclined,  as  yet,  to  renew  civilities 
with  her.  They  argued,  in  their  own  hearts,  tliat 
during  the  many  years  of  retrenchment  she  could 
not  afford  to  return  hospitalities  on  a  scale  of  equiva- 
lent splendor;  and,  in  fact,  poverty  is  offensive  to 
wealth,  and  they  had  already  treated  Miss  Ilallani 
badly,  and,  therefore,  disliked  her.  It  was  an  irrita- 
tion to  have  the  disagreeable  subject  forced  upon 
their  attention  at  all.  If  she  had  assumed  her  broth- 
er's debts  at  the  time  of  his  failure,  they  were  quite 
sure  they  would  have  honored  her,  however  poor 
she  had  left  herself.  But  humanity  has  its  statutes  of 
limitation  even  for  good  deeds  ;  every  one  decided  that 
Elizal)cth  had  become  honorable  and  honest  too  late. 

And  for  once  the  men  were  as  hard  as  their  wives. 
They  had  resented  the  fact  of  a  woman  being  set 
among  the  ranks  of  great  English  squires;  but  having 
been  put  there,  they  expected  from  her  virtues  of 
far  more  illustrious  character  than  they  would  have 
demanded  from  a  man.  ''  For  whativer  can  a  wom- 
an need  wi'  so  much  brass  ? "  asked  Squire  Ilorton, 
indignantly.  "She  doesn't  himt,  and  she  can't  run 
for  t'  county,  and  what  better  could  she  hev  done 
than  clear  an  old  Yorkshire  name  o'  its  dirty  trade 
stain.  I'll  lay  a  five-pound  note  as  Squire  Henry 
left  her  all  for  t'  varry  purpose.  lie  nivver  thought 
much  o'  his  son  Antony's  fine  schemes." 

"  There's  them  as  thinks  he  left  her  Hallam  to 
prevent  Antony  wearing  it  on  his  creditors." 


RL 


M 


tra(l< 


THK    JJaLLAM    SUCCKSSION.  259 

"There's  tl.em  tliet  thinks  uvil  o'  (iucl  Ahiiiirhfy 
hiiusen,  Tlionias  Uaxter.  lleniy  ILilhim  wisagoii- 
tleiiian  to  t'  bone.  Uu'd  huv  paid  iveiy  sliillin^r  aforo 
tljis  if  lieM  been  alive.  Vorksliire  squires  like  their 
own,  but  they  don't  want  what  belongs  to  other 
folk ;  not  they.  Squire  llallani  was  one  o'  t'  best  of 
us.     He  was  that." 

And  though  Elizabeth  had  expected  nothing  better 
irom  her  neighbors,  their  continued  coldness  liurt  her. 
Who  of  us   is   there  that  has  not  experienced  that 
painful  sui-prise  that  the  repulsion  of  others  awakens 
in  our  hearts  ?     VV^e  feel   kindly  to  them,  but  they 
draw    back    their  hand    from    us ;  an   antipathy   es- 
tranges them,  they  pass  us  by.     What  avail  is  it  to 
tell  them  that  /Appearances  deceive,  that  calumny  has 
done  us  wrong  ?     What  good  is  it  to  defend  ourself, 
when    no  one   cares   to  listen  ?    when    we   are   con- 
denmed  before  we  have  spoken  ?    Nothing  is  m  cruel 
as  prejudice ;  she  is  blind  and  deaf ;  she"  shuts  her 
eyes  purposely,  that  she  may  stab  boldly ;  for  she 
knows,  if  she  were  to  look  honestly  at  her  victim,  she 
could  not  do  it. 

But  O,  it  is  from  these  desolate  places  that  heart- 
cry  comes  which  1)rings  God  out  of  his  sanctuary, 
wdiich  calls  Jesus  to  our  side  to  walk  there  with  us.  It 
is  in  the  deserts  we  have  met  angels.  A  great  trial  is 
almost  a  necessity  for  a  true  Christian  life;  for  faith 
needs  a  soil  that  has  been  deeply  plowed.  The 
seed  cast  upon  the  surface  rarely  finds  the  circura- 


tl     l 
I 


^       I 


I  I 


I 


l-tii 


ri 


!    r 


I,: 


2G0 


TlIK  11aij-am  Slccessiux. 


Btaiices  that  aro  surticiuiit  fur  its  development.  And 
blessed  also  are  those  souls  to  whom  the  "lon'^- 
watches."  ol'  sorrow  are  given!  It  is  a  great  soul 
that  is  capable  of  long-c(jntimied  sulfering,  and  that 
can  bring  to  it  day  after  day  a  lieart  at  once  sub- 
missive and  energetic  and  all  \  ibrating  with  hope. 

Yet  it  nuiy  be  fairly  said  that  Elizabcili  Ilallam 
was  now  upon  this  plane.  Her  road  was  still  rough, 
but  she  was  traveling  in  the  daylight,  strong  and 
cheerful,  and  very  happy  in  the  added  pleasure  of  her 
life.  Iler  five  years  of  enforced  poverty  had  taught 
lier  simple  habits.  She  felt  rich  with  the  £800 
yearly  rental  of  the  home  farm.  And  it  was  such  a 
delight  to  have  Harry  riiK  by  her  side ;  she  was  so 
proud  of  the  fair,  bi'ight  boy.  She  loved  him  so  dearly. 
He  had  just  begun  to  study  two  hours  every  day 
with  the  curate,  and  to  the  two  women  at  the  hall  it 
was  a  great  event  every  morning  to  watch  him  away 
to  the  village  on  his  pony,  with  his  books  in  a  leather 
strap  hung  at  his  saddle-bow.  They  followed  him 
with  their  eyes  until  a  turn  in  the  road  hid  the  white 
nag  and  the  little  figure  in  a  blue  velvet  suit  upon  it 
from  them.  For  it  was  Elizabeth's  pride  to  dress  the 
child  daintily  and  richlv  as  the  "young  scpiire  of 
Ilallam  "  ought  to  dress.  She  cut  up  gladly  her  own 
velvets  for  that  purpose,  and  Martha  considered  the 
clear-str  rching  of  his  lace  collars  and  ruffles  one  of 
her  m ;>st  important  duties. 

One  morning,  at  the  close  of  January,  Elizabeth  had 


'-U 


rv 


Teik  IImj.am  Succkssion. 


2«;i 


IT 


had 


to  ij^o  to  the  vilhigu,  and  ishe  told  Harry  wlien  liis 
lessons  were  linished  to  wait  at  tiu)  curate's  until  slic 
called  for  liini.  It  was  an  ex(|uisite  day  ;  cold,  but 
clear  and  sunny,  and  there  was  a  particular  joy  in 
rapid  riding  on  such  a  morning.  They  to(dv  a  circu- 
itous route  home,  a  road  which  led  them  through 
lonely  country  lanes  and  across  some  fields.  The 
robins  were  siniiinLj;  a  little,  and  the  wrens  twitterin;' 
about  the  hawthorn  berries  on  the  bare  hedjfes. 
Elizabeth  and  Harry  rode  rai)idly,  their  horses'  Icet 
and  their  nieny  laughter  nudging  a  cheery  racket  in 
the  lanes.  They  reached  the  hall  gates  in  a  glow  of 
8pir'*-s.  ]\[artha  was  standing  there,  her  round  rosy 
face  all  smiles.  She  said  little  to  Elizabeth,  but  she 
whispered  something  to  Harry,  and  took  him  away 
with  her. 

"  Martha  !  Martha !  "  cried  Elizabeth,  "  yon  will 
spoil  the  boy,  and  make  him  sick.  What  dainty  have 
you  ready  for  him  ?  Cannot  I  share  it  i  I  am  hungry 
enough,  I  can  tell  vou !  " 

Martha  laughed  and  >liook  her  head,  and  Elizabeth, 
after  a  word  to  the  groom,  went  into  the  parlor.  The 
angels  that  hn-ed  her  must  have  followed  her  there. 
They  would  desire  to  see  her  joy.  For  the»*e,  with 
glowing,  tender  face,  stood  Richard.  Siie  asked  no 
questions.  She  spoke  no  word  at  all.  She  went 
straight  to  the  arms  outstretched  to  clasp  her.  She 
felt  his  tears  mingling  with  Ik  r  own.  She  heard  her 
name  break  softly  in  two  the  kisses  that  said  what 


1 


h 


)\ 


\ 


)/. 


I ' 


ft 


■  n 


11 


d 


llil 


2<J2 


TlIIO    II  AM. AM    SlCCJLSSIoN. 


no  wonlrt  eonld  say.  Sliukiiew  tli:it  hIic  liad  found  at 
last  tliu  lioiir  for  which  she  hud  ho[)ud  and  [)ra}'ed  so 
many  years. 

And  Richard  could  hardly  believe  in  his  joy.  This 
splendid  Elizabeth  of  t\venty-ei<^ht,  in  all  the  glory 
and  radiance  of  her  calmed  and  chastened  soul,  and 
her  perfected  womaidiood,  was  iniinitely  more  charin- 
in^  and  lovable  than  he  had  ever  seen  her  before,  lie 
told  her  so  in  glad  ami  happy  words,  and  Elizabeth 
listened,  proud  and  well-contented  with  his  praise. 
For  an  hour  he  would  not  sutfer  her  to  leave  him  ; 
yes,  it  took  him  an  hour,  to  tell  her  hov  well  she 
looked  in  her  riding-dress. 

Neither  of  them  spoke  of  the  events  which  had 
separated  or  reunited  them.  It  was  enough  that 
they  were  together.  They  perfectly  trusted  each 
other  without  exj^lanations.  Those  could  come  after- 
ward, but  this  day  was  too  fair  for  any  memory  of 
sorrow.  When  Elizabeth  came  down  to  dinner  she 
found  Harry  standing  at  Richard's  knee,  explaining 
to  him  the  lessons  he  was  studying.  Her  eyes  took 
in  with  light  the  picture — the  thoughtful  gentleness 
of  the  dark  head,  the  rosy  face  of  the  fair-haired  boy. 

"I  have  been  showing  the  gentleman  my  new 
book,  aunt ;"  then  he  bowed  to  Eichard,  and,  gently 
removing  himself  from  his  arm,  went  to  his  aunt's 
side. 

"  He  says  he  is  called  Henry  Hallam." 

"  Yes,  he  is  my  brother's  only  child." 


TlIK    1 1  AM, AM    Sl'CCKSSION. 


2(;;i 


ir  she 
ining 

took 
encss 

boy. 

new 

3iitly 
luufs 


\ 


And  Uicliiird  (1i'(»j>I)(m1  liis  eyes;  uiid,  turning'  the 
8iil)jc'ct,  Kiiid,  '^  I  calli'd  at  tlio  I'cctor's  as  I  ciiino  liure. 
Ho  insists  upon  my  staying,'  with  liim,  Klizabctli.  IIo 
says  tlie  liall  is  not  prep.ired  for  visitors." 

"1  tliink  he  is  riu-ht,  Richard." 

"  1  l)ron<^-lit  him  a  likeness  of  Phyllis  and  her  hns- 
band.     I  have  a  similar  iiil't  for  you." 

"  2s'o  one  will  prize  them  more.  When  did  you 
see  Phyllis^" 

"  A  month  a<j;o.  She  is  well  and  happy.  John  is 
u  member  of  the  Legislature  this  year.  He  seems  to 
vibrate  between  the  Senate  and  the  froMtier.  lie  is 
a  line  fellow,  and  they  are  doing  well." 

Then  they  fell  into  talking  of  Texas  and  of  the 
disastrous  Santa  Fe  expedition;  and  Harry  listened 
with  blazing  eyes  to  the  talc  of  cruelty  and  wrong. 
Then  the  rector  came  and  Elizabeth  made  tea  for 
her  guests,  and  after  a  happy  evening,  she  watched 
them  walk  away  together  over  the  familiar  road, 
down  the  terraces,  and  across  the  park.  And  she 
went  to  her  room  and  sat  down,  silent  with  joy, 
yet  thinking  thoughts  that  were  thanksgivings,  and 
lifting  up  her  heart  in  speechless  gratitude  and 
adoration. 

By  and  by  Martha  came  to  her.  "  I  couldn't  frame 
mysen  to  sleep  to-night,  Miss  Hallam,  till  I  said  a  word 
to  you.  God  gave  you  a  glad  surprise  this  morning ; 
that's  his  way  mostly.  Hev  you  noticed  that  great 
blessings  come  when  we  are  nivver  expecting  'em  ? " 


''mm«^: 


2(;-4 


The  IIallam  Succession. 


-I 


t\ 


■4  : 


m 


' 


"No,  I  don't  think  I  have;  and  why  should 
tliey?" 

"  I  liev  my  own  tlioiights  about  it,  Mebbe  it  isnt 
alhiys  as  easy  for  God's  angels  to  do  his  iclll  as  we 
think  for.  T'  devil  lies  angels  too,  princes  and 
powers  o'  evil  ;  and  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  they  took 
a  deal  o'  pleasure  in  makkin  good  varry  hard  to  do." 

*'  What  makes  you  think  such  a  strange  thing  as 
that?'^ 

"  Why-a !  I  could  tell  you  what  looks  uncommon 
like  it  out  o'  my  own  life;  but  you  may  tak'  your 
Bible  and  find  it  plain  as  t'  alphabet  can  put  it,  Miss 
IIallam.  Turn  up  t'  tentli  chapter  o'  t'  book  o'  t' 
prophet  Daniel,  and  read  t'  twelfth  and  thirteenth 
verses  otit  to  me."  Then,  as  Martha  stood  watching 
and  waiting,  with  a  bright  expectant  face,  Elizabeth 
lifted  the  book,  and  read, 

" '  Fenr  not,  Daniel :  for  from  the  first  day  that 
thou  didst  set  thine  heart  to  understand,  and  to 
chasten  thyself  before  thy  God,  thy  words  were  heard, 
and  I  am  come  for  thy  word*,  i^ut  the  prince  of  the 
kingdom  of  Persia  withstood  me  one  and  twenty 
days :  but,  lo,  Michael,  one  of  the  chief  princes,  came 
to  help  me.'  " 

"  Yet  he  was  an  angel.  Miss  IIallam,  whose  face 
was  like  lightning,  and  his  eyes  like  lamps  o'  fire,  and 
his  arms  and  feet  like  polished  brass,  and  his  voice 
like  the  voice  of  a  multitude." 

"  Then  you  think,  Martha,  that  the  Bible  teaches 


The  II  all  am  Succession.  205 

us  that  evil  as  well  as  good  angels  interfere  in  hu- 
man life  ? " 

"Ay,  I'm  sure  it  does,  Miss  Ilallam.  If  God  is 
said  to  open  t'  eyes  o'  our  understanding,  t'  devil  is 
said  to  blind  'enu  Are  Christians  filled  wi'  t'  Spirit 
o'  God  ?  '  Why,'  said  Peter  to  Ananias,  '  AVhy  hath 
Satan  filled  thy  heart?'  Does  God  work  in  ns  to 
will  and  to  do  ?  T'  devil  also  works  in  t'  children  o' 
disobedience.     What  do  you  mak'  o'  that  now  ? " 

"  I  think  it  is  a  very  solemn  consideration.  I  have 
often  thought  of  good  angels  around  me  ;  but  we  may 
well  'work  out  our  salvation  with  fear  and  trem- 
bling,' if  evil  ones  are  waiting  to  hinder  us  at  every 
turn." 

"  And  you  see,  then,  how  even  good  angels  may 
hev  to  be  varry  prudent  about  t'  blessings  they  hcv 
on  t'  road   to   us.     So   they  come   as   surprises.     I 
don't  think  it's  iver  well,  even  wi'  oursePs,  to  blow 
a  trumpet   before   any   thing   we're    going    to    do. 
After  we  hev  got  t'  good  thing,  after  weliev  done 
t'  great   thing,  it  '11  be  a  varry  good  time  to  talk 
about  it.     Many  a  night  I've  thought  o'  t'  words  on 
my  little  Wesley  tea-pot,  and   just  said  'em  softlv, 
down  in  my  heart,    'In  God  we   trust.'      But   to- 
night I  hev  put  a  bit  o'  holly  all  around  it,  and  I  hev 
filled  it  full  o'  t'  freshest  greens  and  fiowers  I  could 
get,  and  I  s'all  stand  boldly  up  before  it,  and  say  out 
loud—'  In  God  we  trust ! '  " 


f 

1 

1 

f- 

A 

1 

■- 

^B 

■ 

i 

fill 


iSsiii 


n 


! 


i! 


v) 


L'O'J 


TllK    IIaLLAM    Sut'CKSrflON. 


CIlAPTPTv  X. 

"  WIk'ii  \V(>  liave  hoped  jiiid  songlit  ami  sli'ivoii  and  lost  our  aim, 
tl.rii  liic  initli  frmits  \is,  licaniiiiL;'  out  of  llio  darkucHS." 

'■  Sjvakiiii;'  of  lliiims  rciuctnhorod,  and  so  sit 
Sjiooi'ldi'ss  wliiK'  liiii'^s  foru()U(.'ii  cal!  to  us." 

"  We  wiio  say  as  wi>  ^o, 

'Straii;:;c'  to  think  by  the  way, 
WhaU'vor  thcro  is  to  know, 

Tiiat  wo  shall  know  one  day.' " 

^'  I  AVOIILI)  tell  lier  everv  tliiiiir." 


1 


It  was  the  roctor  wlio  spoke.  He  ami  Rieliard 
were  sittiiio;  before  the  study  tire;  they  had  been 
talkiiii»;  loiiij^  and  seriously,  and  the  rector's  eyes 
■were  dim  atid  troubled.  "  Yes,  I  M'ould  tell  her 
every  thiuij;,"  Then  he  put  his  pipe  down,  and  be- 
gan to  walk  about  the  floor,  niiirinurini!;  at  intervals, 
'^  Poor  fellow  !  ])oor  fellow  !     God  is  merciful." 

In  accord  with  this  advice  Ilichard  went  to  see 
Elizabeth.  It  was  a  painful  story  he  had  to  tell,  and 
lie  was  half  inclined  to  hide  all  but  the  unavoidable 
in  his  own  heart ;  but  he  could  not  doubt  the  wisdom 
which  counseled  him  ''  to  tell  all,  a'ul  tell  it  as  soon 
as  possible.""  The  op})ortunity  occurred  immediately. 
He  found  Elizabeth  mendin":,  with  skillful  fingers, 
Bome  tine  0"j  lace,  which  she  was  going  to  make  into 
ruliles  for  Harry's  neck  and  wrists.     It  was  a  stormy 


Tiiic  IIallam  Succkrsion. 


2<)7 


inominf!^,  and  tlio  boy  Iiud  not  been  pcnoittod  to  go 
to  the  villniro,  hut  ho  sat  hcHi'do  hv.r,  vvwUnir  aloud 
th;it  (h'hi^'ht  of  Imyhood,  "  Uohiiison  ('rusoe."  Kliza- 
hotii  liad  uovor  reiru)ved  her  iriourtiiM«r,  l)ut  licr  lair 
hair  and  white  liiuiu  collar  and  culls  niad<;  an  excjui- 
sit(^  contrast  to  tlio  soft  soinhcr  I'olds  of  her  dress- 
while  Harry  was  just  a  hit  of  brilliant  color,  from  the 
tawny  «rol(l  of  his  lon^j  curls  to  the  rich  li<jjhtH  of 
liis  crimson  velv(!t  suit,  with  itswliite  lace  and  snowy 
hose,  and  low  shoes  tied  with  crimson  ribbons. 

He  was  a  trille  jealous  of  Richard's  interference 
between  liimself  and  In's  aunt,  but  far  too  <^rontle- 
niaidy  a  little  fellow  to  show  it;  and  (juite  shrewd 
enou<»-h  to  understand,  that  if  he  went  to  Martha  for 
an  hour  or  two,  lie  w^ould  not  l>o  much  miswHl. 
They  both  followed  liim  with  admirinir  eyes  as  he 
left  the  room;  and  when  he  stood  a  moment  in  the 
open  door  and  touched  liis  bi-owr  vvitli  liis  liand,  as  a 
l)arting'  courtesy,  neither  could  help  an  expression  of 
satisfaction. 

'^  What  a  handsome  lad  ! ''  said  Richard. 

"lie  is.      If  he   live   to   take   his   fatlutS\  or   my 
place  here,  ho  will  be  a  noble  S(piire  of  llallam." 

"  Then  he  is  to  ho,  your  successor'^  " 

"  Failin_i]j  Antony." 

"  Then,  Elizabeth    dtar,   he    is    Sfpiire    of    Ilalhmi 
already,  for  Antony  is  dead." 

"  Dead  !     Without  a  word  !     Without  sign  of  any 
kind — O,  Eiehard,  is  it  re.'dly — death?" 


I    ': 


U! 


i( 


liii 


268 


The  Hallam  Succession. 


Hichard  bowed  his  head,  and  Elizabetli  sat  gazing 
out  of  the  window  with  vacant  introspective  vis- 
ion, trying  to  call  up  from  the  past  tlie  dear  form 
that  would  come  no  more.  She  put  down  her  sew- 
ing, and  Richard  drew  closer  to  her  side,  and  com- 
forted her  with  assurances  that  he  believed,  "all  was 
well  with  the  dead."  "  I  was  with  him  during  the  last 
weeks  of  his  sad  life,"  he  said  ;  "  I  did  all  that  love 
could  suggest  to  soothe  his  sufferings,  lie  sleeps  well ; 
believe  me." 

"  I  never  heard  from  him  after  our  sorrowful  fare- 
well. I  looked  and  hoped  for  a  little  until  my  heart 
failed  me;  and  I  thought  he  perished  at  sea." 

"  "No  ;  God''s  mercy  spared  him  until  he  had  proved 
the  vanity  of  all  earthly  ambition,  and  then  he  gave 
him  rest.  When  he  awoke,  I  have  no  doubt  that  '  he 
was  satisfied.' " 

"  "Where  did  he  die  ?  Tell  me  all,  Richard,  for 
there  may  be  words  and  events  that  seem  trivial  to 
you  that  will  be  full  of  meaning  to  mo." 

"  Last  Mnrch  I  went  to  Mexico  on  business  of  im- 
portance, and  passing  one  morning  through  llie  Grand 
Plaza,  I  thouglit  a  figure  slowly  sauntering  before 
me  was  a  familiar  one.  It  went  into  a  small  oflice 
for  the  exchange  of  foreign  money,  and,  as  I  wanted 
some  exchange,  I  followed.  To  my  surprise  the  man 
seemed  to  be  the  proprietor;  he  went  behind  the 
counter  into  a  room,  but  on  my  touching  a  bell  re- 
appeared.    It  was  Antony.     The  moment  o\ir  ever 


i 


The  IIallam  Succession. 


209 


I,  for 
'ial  to 

hf  im- 
Rraiid 
)efore 

offioe 
[anted 
man 
Id  the 

i\\  ve- 


met,  we  recognized  each  otlier^  and  after  a  sliglit 
hesitation,  I  am  sure  that  lie  was  tlumkfnl  and  de- 
liglited  to  see  me.  I  was  shocked  at  his  appearance. 
He  looked  fifty  years  of  acre,  and  had  lost  all  his  color, 
and  was  extremely  emaciated.  We  were  soon  in- 
terrupted, and  he  promised  to  come  to  my  hotel  and 
dine  with  me  at  six  o'clock. 

"  I  noticed  at  dinner  that  he  ate  very  little,  and  that 
lie  had  a  distressing  and  nearly  constant  congh,  and 
afterward,  as  we  sat  on  the  piazza,  I  said,  'Let  ns 
go  inside,  Antony ;  there  is  a  cold  wind,  and  you 
have  a  very  bad  congh.' 

"  '  0,  it  is  nothing,'  he  answered  fretfully.  '  The  only 
wonder  is  that  I  am  aliye,  after  all  I  have  been  made 
to  suffer.  Stronger  men  than  I  ever  was  fell  and 
died  at  my  side.  Yon  are  too  polite,  Richard,  to  ask 
me  where  I  have  been ;  but  if  you  wish  to  hear,  I 
should  like  to  tell  you.' 

"I  answered,  'You  are  my  friend  and  my  1)rother, 
Antony ;  and  whatever  touches  you  for  good  or  for 
evil  touches  me  also.  T  should  like  to  hesir  all  you 
wish  to  tell  me.' 

'' '  It  is  all  evil,  Kichard.  You  would  hear  from 
Elizabeth  that  I  was  obliged  to  leave  England  T 

'' '  Yes,  she  told  me.' 

"  '  How  long  have  you  been  married  ? '  lie  asked  me, 
sharply ;  and  when  I  said,  '  We  are  not  married ;  Eliza- 
beth wrote  and  said  she  had  a  duty  to  perform 
which  might  bind  her  for  many  years  to  it,  and  it 


270 


The  IIallam  Succession. 


g!  1 1 


alone,'  your  brother  seemed  to  be  greati^  troubled ; 
and  asked,  angrily,  '  And  you  took  lier  at  her  word, 
and  left  her  in  her  sorrow  alone  ?  Ricliard,  I  did 
not  think  you  would  have  been  so  cruel ! '  And,  my 
darling,  it  was  the  first  time  I  had  thought  of  our 
reparation  in  that  light.  I  attempted  no  excuses  to 
Antony,  and,  after  a  moment's  reflection,  he  went  on : 

" '  I  left  Whitehaven  in  a  ship  bound  for  Havana, 
and  I  remained  in  that  city  until  the  spring  of  1841. 
But  I  never  liked  the  place,  and  I  removed  to  New 
Orleans  at  that  time.  I  had  some  idea  of  seeing  you, 
and  opening  my  whole  heart  to  you  ;  but  I  lingered 
day  after  day  unable  to  make  up  my  mind.  At  the 
hotel  were  I  stayed  there  were  a  number  of  Texans 
coming  and  going,  and  I  was  delighted  with  their 
bold,  frank  ways,  and  with  the  air  of  conquest  and 
freedom  and  adventure  that  clung  to  them.  One  day 
I  passed  you  upon  Canal  Street.  You  looked  so  mis- 
ei-able,  and  were  speaking  to  the  man  with  whom 
you  were  in  conversation  so  sternly,  that  I  could  not 
make  up  my  mind  to  address  you.  I  walked  a  block 
and  returned.  You  were  just  saying,  "  If  I  did  right, 
I  would  send  you  to  the  Penitentiary,  sir ; "  and  I 
had  a  sudden  fear  of  you,  and,  returning  to  the  hotel, 
I  packed  my  valise  and  took  the  next  steamer  for 
Galveston.' 

"  I  answered,  '  I  remember  the  morning,  Antony  ; 
the  man  had  stolen  from  me  a  large  sum  of  money. 
I  was  angry  with  him,  and  I  had  a  right  to  be  angry.' 


piV 


!■! 


ibled ; 
word, 
I  did 
id,  my 
Df  our 
uses  to 
nt  on : 
Havana, 
^  1841. 
0  New 
ig  you, 
ngered 
At  the 
TexaiiB 
li  their 
ast  and 
neday 
so  mis- 
whom 
uld  not 
block 
right, 
and  T 
hotel, 
aer  for 

ntony ; 
money, 
angry.' 


rr 


The  IIallam  Succession. 


271 


"  Antony  frowned,  and  for  some  minutes  did  not  re- 
sume his  story.  He  looked  so  faint,  also,  that  I 
pushed  a  little  wine  and  water  toward  him,  and  he 
wet  his  lips,  and  went  on: 

"'  Yes,  you  liad  a  perfect  right ;  but  your  manner 
checked  me.  I  did  nut  know  eitlier  how  matters 
stood  between  you  and  my  sister ;  so,  instead  of 
speaking  to  you,  I  went  to  Texas.  I  found  Houston 
— I  mean  the  little  town  of  that  name — in  a  state  of 
the  greatest  excitement.  The  tradesmen  were  work- 
ing night  and  day,  shoeing  horses,  or  mending  rifles 
and  pistols ;  and  the  saddlers'  shops  were  besieged 
for  leathern  pouches  and  saddlery  of  all  kinds.  The 
streets  were  like  a  fair.  Of  course.  I  caught  the  en- 
thusiasm. It  was  the  Santa  Fe  expedition,  and  I 
threw  myself  into  it  heart  and  soul.  I  was  going  as 
a  trader,  and  I  hastened  forward,  with  others  similarly 
disposed,  to  Austin,  loaded  two  wagons  with  merchan- 
dise of  every  description,  and  left  with  the  expedi- 
tion in  June. 

"  '  Yon  know  what  a  disastrons  failure  it  was.     "We 

fell  into  the  hands  of  the  Mexicans  by  the  blackest 

villainy ;  through  the  treachery  of  a  companion  in 

whom  we  all  put  perfect  trust,  and  who  h;id  pledged 

ns  his  IMi.sonic  faith  that  if  we  gave  up  our  arms  we 

should  be  allowed  eight  days  to  trade,  and  then  have 

them  returned,  with  permission  to  go  back  to  Austin 

in  peace.     But  once  disarmed,  onr  wagons  and  goods 

were  seized,  we  were  stripped  of  every  thing,  tied  six 
18 


I 


I 


liVfv  !f  I: 


J 


lilt 


1^    ! 


iiHi 


I 


:    H 


1^ 

■h 

L*r ' 

r 

p  - 

:} 

- 

H    , 

•  ■' 

272 


The  IIallam  Succession. 


or  ei^lit  in  a  lariat,  and  sent,  with  a  strong  military 
uscort  to  Mexico. 

"  '  Try  to  imagine,  llicliard,  what  we  felt  in  prospect 
of  this  walk  of  two  thousand  miles,  through  deserts, 
and  over  mountains,  driven,  like  cattle,  with  a  pint  of 
meal  each  night  for  food,  and  a  single  1)laid<et  to 
cover  ns  in  the  bitterest  cold.  Stronii;  men  fell  down 
dead  at  my  side,  or,  being  too  exhausted  to  niove, 
were  shot  and  left  to  the  wolves  and  carrion  ;  our 
guard  merely  cutting  oil  the  poor  fellows'  cars,  as  evi- 
dence that  they  had  not  escaped.  The  horrors  of  that 
march  were  unspeakable.' 

"  Yon  said  I  was  to  tell  you  all — shall  I  go  on, 
Elizabeth  r' 

She  lifted  her  eyes,  and  whispered,  "  Go  on ;  I 
must  hear  all,  or  how  can  I  feel  all  ?  O  Antony  ! 
Antony ! " 

"I  shall  never  forget  his  face,  Elizabeth.  Anger, 
pity,  suffering,  chased  each  other  over  it,  till  his  eyes 
filled  and  his  lips  <piivered.  I  did  not  speak.  Every 
word  I  could  think  of  seemed  so  poor  and  common- 
place ;  but  I  bent  forward  and  took  his  hands,  and  he 
saw  in  mv  face  what  I  could  not  say,  and  for  a  min- 
ute  or  two  he  lost  control  of  himself,  and  wept  like 
a  child. 

"  '  Not  for  myself,  "Richard ; '  he  said, '  no,  I  was  think- 
ing of  that  awful  march  across  the  "  Dead  Man's 
Journey,"  a  savage,  thorny  desert  of  ninety  miles, 
destitute  of  water.     We  were  driven  through  it  with- 


4 


The  1 1  all  am  Succession 


273 


T     ? 


toil}' 


jiger, 


til  ink- 
Man's 
miles, 
;  with- 


out food  and  without  sleep.  My  companion  was  a 
youn<^  man  of  twenty,  the  son  of  a  wealtliy  Alabu- 
mian  planter.  I  met  him  in  Austin,  so  bri<^ht  and 
bold,  so  full  of  eager,  loving  life,  so  daring,  and  so 
hopeful ;  but  liis  strength  had  been  failing  fur  two 
days  ere  he  came  to  the  desert.  His  feet  were  in  a 
pitiable  condition,  lie  was  sleeping  as  he  walked. 
Then  he  became  delirious,  and  talked  constantly  of 
liis  father  and  mother  and  sisters.  He  had  been  too 
ill  to  fill  his  canteen  before  starting  ;  his  thirst  soon  be- 
came intolerable ;  I  gave  him  all  my  water,  I  begged 
from  others  a  few  spoonfuls  of  their  store,  I  held  him 
up  as  long  as  I  was  able;  but  at  last,  at  last,  he 
dropped.  Richard  !  Richard !  They  shot  him  be- 
fore my  eyes,  shot  him  with  the  cry  of  '  Christ'  upon 
his  lips.  I  thiids:  my  anger  supported  mc,  I  don't 
know  else  how  I  bore  it,  but  I  was  mad  with  horror 
and  rage  at  the  brutal  cowards. 

" '  When  I  reached  the  end  of  my  journey  I  was  im- 
prisoned with  some  of  my  comrades,  first  in  a  laza- 
retto, among  lepers,  in  every  stage  of  their  loathsome 
disease ;  and  afterward  removed  to  Santiai^o,  where, 
hampered  with  heavy  chains,  we  were  set  to  work 
upon  the  public  roads.' 

"  I  asked  him  why  he  did  not  apply  to  the  ?>ritisli 
consul,  and  he  said,  '  I  Lad  a  reason  for  not  doing  so, 
Richard.  I  may  tell  you  the  reason  sometime,  but 
not  to-night.  I  knew  that  there  was  diplomatic  cor- 
respondence going  on  about  our  relief,  and  that,  soon 


i; 

y 


9' 


2U 


The  IIallam  Succession. 


M  ■ 


I 


or  later,  those  who  survived  their  brutal  treatment 
would  be  set  free.  1  was  one  that  lived  to  have  my 
ehains  knocked  off ;  but  1  was  many  weeks  sick  after- 
ward,  and,  indeed,  1  have  not  recovered  yet.' 

''  So  you  began  the  exchange  business  here  V^ 

'"  Yes  ;  I  had  saved  through  all  my  troubles  a  little 
store  of  gold  in  a  belt  around  my  waist.  It  was  uot 
much,  but  1  have  more  than  doubled  it;  and  as  soon 
as  1  can,  1  intend  leaving  Mexico,  and  beginning  life 
again  among  civilized  human  beings.'" 

Elizabeth  was  weeping  bitterly,  but  she  said,  "  I 
am  glad  you  have  told  me  this,  llichard.  Ah,  my 
brave  brother !  You  showed  in  your  extremity  the 
race  from  which  you  s})rung!  Sydney's  deed  was 
no  greater  than  yours !  That  '  Dead  Man's  Journey,' 
Richard,  redeems  all  to  me.  I  am  proud  of  Antony 
at  last.  I  freely  forgive  him  every  hour  of  sorrow 
he  has  caused  me.  His  picture  shall  be  hung  next 
his  father's,  and  I  w'ill  have  all  else  forgotten  but  this 
one  deed  ITe  gave  his  last  drink  of  water  to  the  boy 
perishing  at  his  side  ;  he  begged  for  him  when  his  own 
store  failed,  he  supported  him  when  he  could  scarce- 
ly walk  himself,  and  had  tears  and  righteous  anger  for 
the  wrongs  of  others ;  but  for  his  own  sufferings  no 
word  of  complaint !  After  this,  Ilichard,  I  do  not  fear 
what  else  you  have  to  tell  me.    Did  he  die  in  Mexico  ? " 

"  Xo ;  he  was  very  unhappy  in  the  country,  and  he 
longed  to  leave  it.  As  the  weather  grew  warmer  his 
weakness  and  suffering  increased ;  but  it  was  a  hard 


TiiK  Uallam  Succession. 


275 


"I 


was 


ICO?" 


thing  for  ];iii»  to  jxlinit  that  he  was  seriously  ill.  At 
last  he  was  unable  to  attend  to  his  i)Usiness,  and  1  ])er- 
Buaded  him  to  close  his  office.  I  shall  never  for^a't 
his  face  as  he  turned  the  key  in  it;  I  thiidv  lie  felt 
then  that  life  for  him  was  over.  I  had  remained  in 
Mexico  for  some  weeks  entirely  on  his  account,  and  I 
now  suggested,  as  he  had  no  business  cares,  a  journey 
home  by  way  of  Texas.  I  really  believed  that  the 
rare,  line  air  of  the  prairies  would  do  him  good ;  and 
I  was  sure  if  we  could  reach  I'hy^.Is,  he  would  at 
least  die  amonu^  friends. 

"  When  I  made  the  proposal  he  was  eager  as  a  child 
for  it.  lie  did  not  want  to  delay  an  hour,  lie  re- 
membered the  ethereal,  vivifying  airs  of  Western 
Texas,  and  was  quite  sure  if  he  could  only  breathe 
them  ajjain  he  would  be  well  in  a  short  time.  lie 
was  carried  in  a  litter  to  Vera  Cruz,  and  then  taken 
by  sea  to  Brownsville.  And  really  the  journey 
seemed  to  greatly  revive  him,  and  I  could  not  help 
joining  in  his  belief  that  Phyllis  and  Western  Texas 
would  save  him. 

"But  when  w^e  reached  the  Basrpie  there  was  a  sud- 
den change,  a  change  there  was  no  mistaking.  He 
was  imable  to  proceed,  and  I  laid  his  mattress  under 
a  great  live  oak  whose  branches  overshadowed  space 
enough  for  our  camp.  I  cannot  tell  you,  Elizabet'., 
what  a  singular  stillness  and  awe  settled  over  all  of 
us.  I  have  often  thought  and  wondered  about  it 
since.     There  was  no  quarreling,  no  sing^:ig,nor  laugh- 


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270 


The  IIallam  Succkssion. 


; 


I 


ing  among  the  men,  who  were  usually  ready  enough 
for  any  of  thein ;  and  this  '  still '  feeling,  I  suppose, 
was  intensified  by  the  weather,  and  the  peculiar 
atmosphere.  For  we  had  come  by  such  slow  stages, 
that  it  was  Indian  summer,  and  if  you  can  imagine 
an  English  October  day,  spiritualized,  and  wearing  a 
veil  of  exquisite  purply-grey  and  amber  haze,  you 
may  have  some  idea  of  the  lovely  melancholy  of  these 
dying  days  of  the  year  on  the  prairie. 

"  We  waited  several  days  in  this  place,  and  he  grew 
very  weak,  suffering  much,  but  always  suffering 
patiently  and  with  a  brave  cheerfulness  that  was  inex- 
pressibly sorrowful.  It  was  on  a  Sunday  morning 
that  he  touched  me  just  between  the  dawn  and  the 
daylight,  and  said,  '  Richard,  I  have  been  dreaming 
of  Hallamand  of  my  mother.  She  is  waiting  for  me. 
I  will  sleep  no  more  in  this  world.  It  is  a  beautiful 
world  ! '  During  the  day  I  never  left  him,  and  we 
talked  a  great  deal  about  the  future,  whose  mystery  he 
was  so  soon  to  enter.  Soon  after  sunset  he  whispered 
to  me  the  wrong  he  had  done,  and  which  he  was  quite 
sure  you  were  retrieving.  He  acknowledged  that  he 
ought  to  have  told  me  before,  but  pleaded  his  weak- 
ness and  his  dread  of  losing  the  only  friend  he  had. 
It  is  needless  to  say  I  forgave  him,  forgave  him  for 
you  and  for  myself  ;  and  did  it  so  heartily,  that  be- 
fore I  was  conscious  of  the  act  I  had  stooped  and 
kissed  him. 

"About  midnight  he  said  to  me,  '  Pray,  Richard ;' 


The  11  all  am  kSuccEssioN. 


2 


<  4 


and  surely  I  was  helped  to  du  so,  for  crowding  into 
nij  memory  came  every  blessed  promise,  every  com- 
forting hope,  that  could  make  the  hour  of  death  the 
hour  of  victory.  And  while  1  was  saying,  '  Behold 
the  Lamb  of  God,  who  taketh  away  the  sin  of  the 
world,'  he  passed  away.  We  were  quite  alone.  The 
men  were  sleeping  around,  unconscious  of  '  llini  that 
waited.'  The  moon  Hooded  the  prairie  with  a  soft, 
hazy  light,  and  all  was  so  still  that  1  could  hear  the 
cattle  in  the  distance  cropping  the  grass.  1  awoke  no 
one.  The  last  offices  1  could  do  for  him  1  qi/jtly 
performed,  and  then  sat  down  to  watch  until  day- 
light. All  was  very  happy  and  solemn.  It  was  as  if 
the  Angel  of  Peace  had  passed  by.  And  as  if  to 
check  any  doubt  or  fear  I  might  be  tempted  to  in- 
dulge, suddenly,  and  swift  and  penetrating  as  light, 
tliese  lines  catne  to  my  recollection  : 

"  '  Down  in  the  vnlley  of  Dentli, 

A  Cross  is  standiiifT  plain  ; 
Wlioro  stranjre  and  awful  tlio  sliadows  slocp, 

And  tlio  uround  lias  a  deep,  roil  st.iin. 
"  '  This  Cross  npliftod  thore 

For1)ids,  with  voice  divino. 
Onr  anfruishod  hearts  to  bronk  for  the  (load 

Who  have  diod  atid  niado  tio  siu;n. 

"  '  As  thoy  turned  away  from  ns. 

Dear  eyes  that  wore  heavy  and  dim. 
May  have  mot  His  look  who  was  lifted  there, 

May  be  'oleopinp  safe  in  Him.'  " 

""Where  did  you  bury  him,  Tlichard  ?  " 

"Under  the  tree.     Not  in  all  the  wrn-ld  could  we 


.'\   17 


'27S 


TiiK  IIallam  Succession. 


•     1      K: 


P  i 


have  found  for  liiiii  so  lovely  and  so  still  a  ^i-ave. 
Just  at  suiu'iso  wo  laid  liini  there,  'in  sure  and  certain 
hope  '  of  the  resurrection.  One  of  the  Mexicans  cut 
a  cross  and  placed  it  at  his  head,  and,  rude  and  i«!;no- 
rant  as  thev  all  were,  I  l)elievc  every  one  said  a  pi-ayer 
for  his  repose.  Then  1  took  the  little  gold  he  had, 
divided  it  among  them,  paid  them  their  wages,  and 
let  them  return  home.  I  waited  till  :dl  the  tunnilt  of 
their  departure  was  over,  then  I,  too,  silently  lifted  my 
hat  in  a  last  '  farewell.'  It  was  quite  noon  then,  and 
the  grave  lay  in  a  band  of  sunshine — a  very  j)leasant 
grave  to  remember,  Elizabeth." 

She  was  weeping  unrestrainedly,  and  Kichard  let 
her  weep.  Such  rain  softens  and  fertilizes  the  soul, 
and  leaves  ii  harvest  of  blessedness  behind.  And 
when  the  first  shock  Mas  over,  Elizabeth  could  almost 
rejoice  for  the  dead  ;  for  Antony's  Mfe  had  been  set 
to  extremes — great  ambHious  and  great  failures — and 
few,  indeed,  are  the  spirits  so  finely  touched  as  to 
walk  with  even  balance  between  them.  Therefore  for 
the  mercy  that  had  released  him  from  the  trials  and 
temptations  of  life,  there  was  gratitude  to  be  given, 
for  it  was  due. 

That  night,  when  Martha  brought  in  Elizabeth's 
candle,  she  said  :  "  INFartha,  my  brother  is  dead.  i»Ias- 
ter  Harry  is  now  the  young  scpiire.  You  will  tec 
that  this  is  understood  by  every  (»ne." 

"God  love  him!  And  may  t'  light  o^  his  counte- 
nance be  forever  on  hiiu  1 " 


TlIK    11 ALLAM    yucCESSION. 


2TD 


"And  if  any  iisk  about  Mr.  Antony,  jou  may  say 
that  lie  (lied  ii.  Texas." 

"That  is  where  Mrs.  Millard  lives  T' 
"  Yes,  Mrs.   Millard  lives  in  Texas,     ^[r.  Antony 
died  of  eonsuniption.     O,  Murllia  !    sit  down,  1  must 
tell  you  all  about  him  ; "  and  Elizabeth  went  over  the 
pitiful  story,  and  talked  about  it,  until  both  women 
were  weary  with  weeping.     The  next  morning  they 
hung  Antony's  picture  between  that  of  his  father  and 
mother.     It  had  been  taken  just  after  his  return  from 
college,  in  the  very  first  glory  of  his  youthful  man- 
hood, and  Elizabeth  looked  fondly  at  it,  and  linked  it 
only  with  memories  of  their  happy  innocent  child- 
hood, and  with  the  g.-and  self-abnegation  of  "  the  dead 
man's  journey." 

The  news  of  Antony's  death  caused  a  perceptible 
reaction  in  popular  feeling.     The  young  man,  after  a 
liard  struggle  with  adverse   fate,  luid  paid  the  last 
debt,  and  the  great  debt.     Good  men  refrain  from 
judging   those   who    have   gone   to   God's    ti'il)unal. 
Even  his   largest   creditors  evinced  a  disposition  to 
take,  with  consideration,   their   claim,   as   the   estate 
could  pay  it;    and  some  willingness  to  allow  at  last, 
"  thet  Miss   Ilallani  hcd  done  t'  right  thinir."     The 
fact  of   tlic  Whaley  Tlrothei-s   turning  her  defenders 
rather  confoun.led  them.     They  had'  a  i)rof(„n,d  re- 
spect for  -  t'  Whaleys  ;  "  and  if  "  t'  AVhaloys  were  for 
backin'  up  Miss  [lallam's  ways,"  the  majority  were 
sure   that    Miss   Ilallam's  ways  were   such   as   com- 


280 


The  Hallam  Succession. 


4^! 


:  5 


mended  tlieniselvus  to  "  men  as  stood  tirm  for  t'  law 
and  t'  laud  o'  England."  With  any  higher  test  they 
did  not  trouble  themselves. 

The  public  recognition  of  young  Harry  Hallam  as 
the  future  squire  also  gave  great  satisfaction.  After 
all,  no  stranger  and  foreigner  was  to  have  rule  over 
them  ;  for  Itichard  they  certainly  regarded  in  that 
light.  "  He  might  be  a  Hallam  to  start  wi',''  said 
Peter  Crag,  "  but  he's  been  that  way  mixed  up  wi' 
French  and  such,  thet  t'  Hallam  in  him  is  varry  hard 
to  find."  All  the  tenants,  upon  the  advent  of  Kichard, 
had  stood  squarely  upon  their  dignity  ;  they  had  told 
each  other  that  they'd  pay  rent  only  to  a  Hallam,  and 
they  had  quite  determined  to  resent  any  suggestion 
made  by  Kichard,  and  to  disregard  any  order  he 
gave. 

But  it  was  quickly  evident  that  Eichard  did  not 
intend  to  take  any  more  interest  in  Hallam  than  he 
did  in  the  Church  glebe  and  tithes,  and  that  tlio 
only  thing  lie  desired  was  the  bride  he  had  waited  so 
lono;  for.  The  spring  was  far  advanced,  however,  be- 
fore the  wedding-day  was  fixed  ;  for  there  was  much 
to  provide  for,  and  many  things  to  arrange,  in  view 
of  \he  long-continued  absences  whicli  would  be  almost 
certain.  The  Whaleys,  nrged  by  a  lover,  certainly  hur- 
ried their  work  to  a  degree  which  astonished  all  their 
subordinates ;  but  yet  February  had  passed  before  all 
the  claims  against  Antony  Hallam  had  been  collected. 
The  debt,  as  debt  always  is,  was  larger  than  had 


The  IIallam  Succession. 


281 


been  expected  ;  and  twelve  years'  iiiconie  would  be 
exhausted  in  its  liquidation.  Elizabeth  glanced  at 
Harry  and  looked  gravely  at  the  papers;  but  liichai-d 
said,  "  Be  satislied,  dear.  He  will  have  tho  income 
at  the  age  he  really  needs  it— when  lie  begins  his 
university  career— until  then  we  can  surely  care  for 
hini." 

80  Dallam  was  left,  financially,  in  the  Whaleys' 
care.  They  were  to  collect  all  its  revenues,  and  kecj) 
the  house  and  grounds  in  repair,  and,  after  paying  all 
expenses  incidental  to  this  duty,  they  were  to* divide, 
ill  fair  proportions,  the  balance  every  three  years 
among  Antony's  creditors.  This  arrangement  gave 
perfect  satisfaction,  for,  as  Marmaduke  Ilalcroft  said, 
"  If  t'  Whaleys  ar'n't  to  be  trusted,  t'  world  might  as 
well  stand  still,  and  let  honest  men  get  out  o'  it." 

As  to  the  house,  it  was  to  be  left  absolutely  in 
Martha's  care.  Inside  its  walls  her  authority  was  to 
be  undisputed,  and  Elizabeth  insisted  that  her  salary 
should  be  on  the  most  liberal  basis.  In  fact,  Martha's 
position  made  her  a  person  of  importance— a  woman 
who  could  afford  to  do  handsomely  toward  her  chapel, 
and  who  might  still  have  put  by  a  large  sum  every 
year. 

The  wedding  was  a  very  pretty  one,  and  Elizabeth, 
in  her  robe  of  white  satin  and  lace,  with  pearls  around 
her  throat  and  arms,  was  a  most  lovely  bride.  Twelve 
young  girls,  daughters  of  her  tenants,  dressed  in 
white,  and  carrying  handfuls  of  lilies-of-the-valley, 


282 


The  IIallam  Succession. 


I    K 


went  with  her  to  the  aUar ;  and  llieharcl  had  lor  his 
attendant  the  handsome  little  squire.  Tiie  rector 
took  the  place  of  Elizabeth's  father,  and  a  neighbor- 
ing  clergyman  i)erft»rmed  the  ceremony.  Most  of 
the  surrounding  lamilies  were  present  in  the  church, 
and  with  this  courtesy  Elizabeth  was  (piite  satisfied. 
Immediately  after  the  marriage  they  left  for  Liver- 
pool, and  when  they  arrived  at  lllchard's  home  it 
was  in  the  time  of  orange  blooms  and  building  birds, 
as  he  had  desired  it  should  be,  six  years  before. 

But  one  welcome  wliich  they  would  gladly  have 
heard  was  wanting.  Bishop  Elliott  had  removed,  and 
no  other  preacher  had  taken  his  ])lace  in  Ilichard's 
home.  This  was  caused,  however,  by  the  want  of 
Bome  womaidy  influence  as  a  conductor.  It  was 
Phyllis  who  had  brought  the  kindred  souls  together, 
and  made  pleasant  places  for  them  to  walk  and  talk 
in.  Phyllis  had  desired  very  much  to  meet  Eliza- 
beth, on  her  advent  into  her  American  life,  but  the 
time  had  been  most  uncertain,  and  so  many  other 
duties  held  the  wife  and  mother  and  mistress,  that  it 
had  been  thought  better  to  defer  the  pleasure  till  it 
could  be  more  definitely  arranged.  And  then,  after 
all,  it  was  Elizabeth  that  went  to  see  Phyllis.  One 
day  Pichard  came  home  in  a  hurry. 

"Elizabeth!  I  am  going  to  Texas  —  to  Austin. 
Suppose  you  and  Harry  go  with  me.  We  will  give 
Phyllis  a  surprise." 

"  But  housekeepers  don't  like  surprises,  Kichard." 


TllK    II  ALL  AM    SUCCKSSION. 


2s;i 


1  t'«>r  his 
3  rector 
eighbor- 
Most  of 
cliurcli, 
^utistied. 
)r  Liver- 
hoine  it 
ig  birds, 
re. 

lly  have 
ived,  and 
licbard's 
want  of 
It  was 
together, 
and  talk 
et  Eliza- 
,  but  the 
ny  other 
3s,  tliat  it 
lire  till  it 
len,  after 
lis.     One 

)  Austin, 
will  give 

ichard." 


"Then  we  will  write  before  leaving,  but  I  doubt 
if  the  letter  will  be  in  advance  of  us." 

It  was  not.  John  Millard's  home  was  a  couple  of 
miles  distant  from  Austin,  and  the  mail  was  not 
gone  for  with  any  regularity.  Besitles,  at  this  time, 
John  was  attending  to  his  duties  in  the  Legisla- 
ture, and  riiyllis  relied  upon  his  visits  to  the  post- 
ofiice. 

It  was  a  pleasant  afternoon  in  June  when  the 
stage  deposited  them  in  the  beautiful  citv,  and  after 
some  refreshment  liichard  got  a  buggy  and  deter, 
mined  to  drive  out  to  the  Millard  place.  Half  a 
mile  distant  from  it  they  met  a  boy  about  seven 
years  old  on  a  mustang,  and  Richard  asked  Iiim  if 
he  could  direct  him  to  Captain  Millard's  liouse. 

"  I  reckon  so,"  said  the  little  chap,  with  a  laugh ; 
"  I  generally  stop  there,  if  I'm  not  on  horseback." 

"  O,  indeed !     What  is  your  name  ? " 

"  My  name  is  Eichard  Millard.  What's  your  name, 
sir  ? " 

"  My  name  is  Richard  Fontaine ;  and  I  shouldn't 
wonder  if  you  are  my  nephew." 

"  I'm  Jibout  certain  you  are  my  uncle.  And  is  that 
my  English  aunt?  Wont  ma  be  glad?  Say,  wont 
you  hurry  up  ?  I  was  going  into  the  city.  My  pa's 
going  to  speak  to-night.  Did  you  ever  hear  my  pa 
S]3eak  ? " 

"  No ;  but  I  should  like  to  do  so." 

"  I  should  think  you  would.     See !      There's  ma. 


284 


The  II  all  am  Succkssion. 


•I  t 


,iV 


That  is  Lulu  hanging  on  to  lier,  and  that  is  Sam 
Houston  in  hur  arms.  JVIy  pony  is  called  '  San 
Jacinto.'  Say !  Who  is  that  witli  you  and  aunt, 
Uncle  Itichard  ?  I  mean  f/ou  /  "  and  he  nodded  and 
smiled  at  Harry. 

'' Tliat  is  Harry  Hallam — a  relation  of  yours." 

"  I'm  glad  of  that.  Would  he  like  to  ride  my 
pony  'i " 

"  Yes,"  answered  Harry,  promptly. 

But  llichard  declined  to  make  exclian<res  just 
there,  especially  as  they  could  see  Phyllis  curiously 
watching  their  approach.  In  another  moment  she 
had  given  Sam  Houston  to  a  negro  nurse,  flung  a  sun- 
bonnet  on  her  head,  and  was  tripping  to  the  gate  to 
meet  them. 

"  O  how  glad  I  am,  Elizabeth !  I  knew  you  the 
minute  I  saw  the  tip  of  your  hat,  Richard !  And 
this  is  Harry  Hallam  S  Come  in,  come  in ;  come  with 
ten  thousand  welcomes !  " 

What  a  merry  household  it  was !  What  a  joyous, 
plentiful,  almost  out-of-doors  meal  was  ready  in 
half  an  hour!  And  then,  as  soon  as  the  sun  set, 
Phyllis  said,  "  Now,  if  you  are  not  tired,  we  will  go 
and  surprise  John.  He  is  to  speak  to-night,  and  I 
make  a  point  of  listening  to  him,  in  the  capitol." 

Eichard  and  Elizabeth  were  pleased  with  the  pro- 
posal ;  but  Harry  desired  to  stay  with  young  Mil- 
lard. The  boys  had  fraternized  at  once, — what  good 
boys  do  rot  ?  especially  when  there  are  ponies  and 


,t  is  Sum 
lied  '  Sail 
ind  aunt, 
•dded  and 


urs 


1) 


ride  my 


Ti<res  just 
cnricmely 
tment  she 
mg  a  sun- 
le  gate  to 


'  you  the 
rd !  And 
3ome  with 

a  joyous, 
ready  in 
e  sun  set, 
rve  will  go 
^ht,  and  I 
^itol." 
h  the  pro- 
oung  Mil- 
what  good 
)onies  and 


The  Hallam  Succession.  2Si) 

rabbits  and  puppies  and  pigeons  to  exhibit,  and  talk- 
about, 

Phyllis  had  matured  into  a  very  beautiful  woman 
and  Kichard  was    proud  of  boMi  his  sister  and  his 
wife,  when  ho  entered  the  Texas  capitol  with  tla-m. 
It  was  a  stirring  scene  he  saw,  and  certainly  a  gatiier- 
ing   of  manhood   of    a   very   exceptional  character 
The  lobbies  were  full  of   lovely,   brilliant  women  ; 
and  scattered  among  them— chfitting,  listening,  loviJ 
making-was  many  a  well-known  hero,  on  whose  sun- 
I)rowned  face  the  history  of  Texas  was  written.     The 
matter  in  dispute  did  not  much  interest  Elizabeth, 
but  she  listened  with  amusement  to  a  conversation 
between   Phyllis   and   pretty  Betty   Lubbock  about 
the  latter's  approaching  wedding,  and  her  trip  to  the 
"  States." 

I.I  the  middle  of  a  deserij.tion  of  tl,e  bridal  ,lros. 
there  fell  npon  her  earn  these  words :  "  A  1,111  for  the 
relief  of  the  Millard  Rangers."  She  looked  eagerly 
to  see  who  would  rise.  It  was  only  a  prosy  old"nan 
who  opposed  the  „,easure,  o„  the  ground  that  the 
State  could  not  afford  to  protect  such  a  far-outlyin<. 
frontier.  "^     ^ 

"  Perish  the  State  that  cannot  protect  her  citizens ' " 
cried  a  vehement  voice  from  another  seat,  and  forth- 
with leaped  to  his  feet  Captain  John  Milh.rd.  Eliza- 
beth had  never  seen  him,  but  she  knew,  from  Phylli.'s 
sudden  silence,  and  the  proud  light  in  her  face  wlio 
It  was.     He  talked  as  he  fought,  witli  all  his  soul  a 


2sr) 


Tm:  IIallam  Sitcession. 


very  KuiKTt  in  clulKitu,  as  ho  was  in  hattlc.  In  three 
minutes  all  whispering  had  ceased;  women  listened 
with  full  eyes,  men  with  glowing  cheeks;  and  when 
he  sat  down  the  hill  was  virtually  i)assed  hy  acelunia- 
tioii.  riiyliis  was  silently  weeping,  and  not,  perhaps, 
all(»getlier  for  the  slaughtered  women  aiul  children 
on  the  frontier;  there  were  a  few  pn^ud,  happy  tears 
for  interests  nearer  lionie. 

Then  came  John's  surprise,  and  the  liappy  rido 
home,  and  many  and  many  a  joyful  day  after  it — a 
month  of  complete  happiness,  of  days  devoid  of  care, 
and  tilled  with  perfect  love  and  health  and  friend- 
ship, and  made  beautiful  with  the  sunshine  and  airs 
of  an  earthly  paradise.  Phyllis's  home  was  a  roomy 
wooden  house,  sjin^ading  wide,  as  every  thing  does 
in  Texas,  with  doors  and  windows  standing  open, 
and  deep  piazzas  on  every  side.  Behind  it  was  a 
grove  of  the  kingly  magnolia,  in  front  the  vast 
shadows  of  the  grand  pecans.  Greenest  turf  was 
under  thorn ;  and  there  v.'as,  ])esidcs,  a  multitude  of 
flowers,  and  vines  M'hich  trailed  up  the  lattices  of 
the  ]>iazzas,  and  over  the  walls  and  roofs,  and  even 
dropped  in  at  the  chamber  windows. 

There  was  there,  also,  the  constant  stir  of  happy 
servants,  laughing  and  singing  at  their  work,  of 
playing  children,  of  trampling  horses,  of  the  coming 
and  going  of  guests;  for  Captain  Millard's  house 
was  near  a  great  highway,  and  was  known  far  and 
wide  for  its  hospitality.     The  stranger  fastened  liis 


Vi  I'l  I 


Thk  I  1am, am  Succession. 


2S7 


1  tlireo 

I  wliuii 

10  I'll  a  ps, 
■hiUhvii 
[)}•  tuars 

py  vide 
er  it — a 
of  care, 
I  fricud- 
aiid  airs 
a  roomy 
ing  does 
«»•  open, 
it  wa3  a 
the  vast 
uvf  was 
itiulc  of 
\tticca  of 
and  even 

of  happy 
work,  of 
le  coming 
d's  lionse 
II  far  and 
;tcncd  liis 


iiorse  at  tliu  fence,  and  asked  uudonhtinuly  for  a  cup 
of  coll'ee,  or  a  <;Ia.<s  of  iiiilk.  and  I'liyllis  liad  a  pleas- 
ant word  and  a  chfcrful  meal  for  every  caller;  yo 
that  John  rarely  \vaiite(l  company  when  lie  sat  in  the 
cool  and  Hilence  of  the  cvcniiii;:.  Ir  nii'-ht  be  a 
ranger  from  the  Pecos,  or  a  tra.ler  fi-oin  the  llio 
Grande,  or  a  land  speculator  from  the  States,  or  a!i 
English  gentleman  on  his  tiavds,  or  a  Methodist 
missionary  doing  his  circuit ;  yea,  sometimes  half  a 
dozen  travelers  and  soj(Mirne?'s  met  together  there, 
and  then  they  talked  and  aigued  and  described 
until  the  "  night  turned,"  and  the  cocks  were  crowin-r 
for  the  dawning. 

Richard  thorougldy  enjoyed  the  life,  and  Eliza- 
beth's nature  expanded  in  it,  as  a  flower  in  sunsliine. 
What  gallops  she  liad  on  the  prairies!  What  ram- 
bles with  Phyllis  by  the  creek  sides  in  search  of 
strange  flowers !  What  sweet  confidences !  What 
new  experiences!  What  a  revelation  altogether  of 
a  real,  fresh,  natural  life  it  was !  Ai'd  she  saw  with 
her  own  eves,  and  with  a  kind  of  wonder,  the  men 
who  had  dared  to  be  free,  and  to  found  a  republic  of 
free  men  in  the  face  of  nine  million  Mexicans — men 
of  iron  wills,  who  under  rude  felt  hats  had  the  finest 
heads,  and  under  buckskin  vests  the  warmest  hearts. 
Phyllis  was  always  del'ghted  to  point  them  out,  to 
tell  over  again  their  exploits,  and  to  watch  the  kin- 
dling of  the  heroic  fire  in  Elizabeth's  eyes. 

It  was,  indeed,  a  wonderful  month,  and  the  last 
19 


2S8 


The  Hallam  Succession. 


^\ 


-    '§ 


i  ^.t- 


day  of  it  was  marked  hv  a  rne(!tinnj  that  made  a  deep 
impression  upon  Elizabeth.  She  was  dressing  in  the 
afternoon  when  she  heard  a  more  than  usually  noisy 
arrival.  Lookino;  out  of  the  window  she  saw  a  man 
unsaddling  his  horse,  and  a  crowd  of  negroes  running 
to  meet  him.  It  seemed,  al?o,  as  if  every  one  of 
John's  forty-two  dogs  was  ecjually  delighted  at  the 
visit.  Such  a  barking !  Such  a  chorus  of  welcome  ! 
Such  exclamations  of  satisfaction  it  is  impossible  to 
describe.  The  new-comer  was  a  man  of  immense 
stature,  evidently  more  used  to  riding  than  to  walk- 
ing. For  his  gait  was  slouching,  his  limbs  seemed  to 
dan;rle  about  him,  and  he  had  a  lazy,  listless  stoop,  as 
he  came  up  the  garden  with  his  saddle  over  his 
arm,  listening  to  a  score  of  voices,  patting  the  dogs 
that  leaped  around  and  upon  him,  stopping  to  lift 
up  a  little  negro  baby  that  hnd  toddled  between  his 
big  legs  and  fallen,  and,  linully,  standing  to  shake 
hands  with  Uncle  Isaac,  the  patriarch  of  The  Quar- 
ters. And  as  Uncle  Isaac  never — except  after  long 
absences — paid  even  "  j\Iastcr  John "  the  honor  of 
coming  to  meet  him,  Elizabeth  wondered  who  the 
guest  could  be. 

Coming  down  stairs  she  met  Harriet  in  her  very 
gayest  hcad-kerchicf  and  her  white-embroidered 
apron  and  her  best-company  manner:  •' De  minister 
am  come,  Miss  Lizzie — de  Rev.  Mr,  Ivollins  am 
'rived  ;  and  de  camp-mectin'  will  be  'ranged  'bout 
now.     I'se  powerful  sorry  you  kaint  stay,  ma'am." 


le  a  deep 
lor  in  the 
,lly  noisy 
AV  a  man 
1  running 
y^  one  of 
id  at  tlio 
w'elcome ! 
ossible  to 

immense 
1  to  walk- 
seemed  to 
\  stoop,  as 

over  his 
;  the  dogs 
ng  to  hft 
jtween  his 

to  shake 
The  Qnar- 
after  long 

lio'ior  of 
i  who  the 

[1  her  very 
nbroidered 
)e  minister 
Rolhns  am 
nored  'hout 
ma'am." 


The  IIallam  Succession.  239 

"Where  does  Mr.  Rollins  come  from?" 
"  L)e  Lord  knows  whar.     He's  at  de  Ilio  (^xrande 
and  den  'lore  you  can  calc'late  he's  at  de  Colorado.-  ' 
•'  U^  appears  to  be  a  great  favorite." 
''He's  done  got  de  hearts  ob  ebery  one  in  In's  nrrht 
hand;  and  de  dogs!   dey  whimper  after   liina  fol  a 
week;  and  de  httle  children!  he  draw  dem  to  liini 
from  dar  nuunmy's  breast.    Nobody's  never  seed  sich 
a  man ! " 

He  was  talking  to  Joliii  ,v]>en  Elizabetl,  went  on 
the   gallery,  and    Harry   was   standing   between   his 
knees,  and  Dick  Millard  leaning  on    his  shoulder 
Half  a  dozen  of  the  more  favored  dogs  were  lyin<, 
aronnd  him,  and  at  least  a  dozen  negro  children  wert 
crawling  np  the  piazza  steps,  or  peeping  through  the 
ra.hngs.     He  was  dressed  in  buckskin  and  blue  flan- 
nel   and   at   first   sight  had  a  most  unclerical   look. 
Bnt  the  moment  he  lifted  his   face  Elizabeth  saw 

;;^r,  I  "'''"■;  "'^,'''''  ^''"'  'o"^'^^  "«  from  the  small 
tw  nkhng  0,-bs  beneath  his  large  brews.  And  as  ho 
grew  excted  m  the  evening's  conversation,  his  mus- 
^™  nerved  his  body  straightened,  and  he  be  an.e 
2  -O'-  l^notted  en,bodi„.ent  of  calm  power  and 
aeternimation. 

_"  W-e  expectedyou  two  weeks  ago,"  said  .Tohn  to  huru 

There  was  work  laid  o„t  for  me  I  hadn't  ealcu- 

l.'te.l  on,  John.     Bowie's  men  were  hard  up  for  fresh 

meat,  and  I  lent   thorn  my  rifle  a  few  dajs.      i^: 
the  Indians  bothered  me.     They  were  hanging  around 


ill 


i  I  '■! 


290 


The  IIallam  Succession. 


Sidedo  settlement  in  a  way  I  didn't  like,  so  I  watched 
them  until  I  was  about  sure  of  their  next  dirty  trick. 
It  happened  to  be  a  thieving  one  on  the  Zavala 
ranche,  so  I  let  Zavala  know,  and  then  rode  on  to 
tell  Granger  he'd  better  send  a  few"  boys  to  keep 
them  red-handed  Comanche  from  picking  and  steal- 
ing and  murdering." 

"  It  was  just  like  you.  You  probaWy  saved  many 
lives." 

"  Saving  life  is  often  saving  souls,  John.  Next 
time  I  go  that  way  every  man  at  Zavala's  ranche 
and  every  man  in  Granger's  cr.rnp  will  listen  to  me. 
I  shall  then  have  a  greater  danger  than  red  men  to 
tell  them  of.  But  they  know  both  my  ride  and  my 
words  are  true,  and  when  I  say  to  them,  '  Boys, 
there's  hell  and  heaven  right  in  your  path,  and  your 
next  step  may  plunge  you  into  the  fiery  gulf,  or  open 
to  you  the  golden  gates,'  they'll  listen  to  me,  and 
they'll  believe  me.  John,  it  takes  a  soldier  to  preach 
to  soldiers,  and  a  saved  sinner  to  know  how  to  save 
other  sinners." 

"  And  if  report  is  not  unjust,"  said  Richard,  "  you 
will  find  plenty  of  great  sinners  in  such  circuits  as 
you  take." 

"Sir,  you'll  find  sinners,  great  sinners,  every- 
wli(  re.  I  acknowledge  that  Texas  has  been  made  a 
kit  I  of  receptacle  for  men  too  wicked  to  live  among 
their  fellows.  I  often  come  upon  these  wild,  carrion 
jail-birds.     I  know  them  a  hundred  yards  oft".     It  is  a 


ratclied 
Y  trick. 
Zavala 
!  on  to 
to  keep 
d  steal- 
id  many 

Next 

ranclie 

to  me. 

I  men  to 

and  my 

,  'Boys, 

md  yoni* 

,  or  open 

me,  and 

o  preach 

7  to  save 

rd,  "  you 
ircuits  as 


s,  every- 
n  made  a 
ve  among 
1,  carrion 
f.     It  is  a 


The  Hallam  Succession.  291 

great  thing,  every  way,  that  they  come  here.     God 
be  thanked !   Texas  has  nothing  to  fear  from  them. 
In  the  first  place,  though  the  atmosphere  of  crime 
is  polluting  in  a  large  city,  it  infects  nobody  here.     I 
tell  you,  sir,  the  murderer  on  a  Texas  prairie  is  mis- 
erable.    There  is  nothing  so  terrible  to  him  as  this 
freedom  and  loneliness,  in  which  he  is  always  in  the 
company  of  his   outraged  conscience,  which  drives 
him  hither  and  thither,  and  gives  him  no  rest.     For 
I  tell  you,  that  murderers  don't  willingly  meet  to- 
gether,  not   even   over    the   whisky   bottle.      They 
know  each  other,  and  shun  each  other.     Well,  sir, 
this  subject  touches  me  warmly  at  present,  for  I  am' 
just  come  from  the  death-bed  of  such  a  man.     I  have 
been   with    him   three   days.      You   remember  Bob 
Black,  John  ? " 

"  Yes.  A  man  who  seldom  spoke,  and  whom  ro 
one  liked.  A  good  soldier,  though.  I  don't  believe 
he  knew  the  meaning  of  fear." 

"  Didn't  he  ?  I  have  seen  him  sweat  with  terror. 
He  has  come  to  me  more  dead  than  alive,  clunc  to 
my  arms  like  a  child,  begged  me  to  stand  between 
hnn  and  the  shapes  that  followed  him." 

"Drunk?" 

"No,  sir.  I  don't  think  he  ever  tasted  Hquor;  but 
he  was  a  haunted  man !  He  had  been  a  sixfold 
murderer,  and  his  victims  made  life  a  terror  to  him." 

"  How  do  you  account  for  that  ? " 

"We  have  a  spiritual  body,  and  we  have  a  natural 


292 


The  Hallam  Succession. 


body.  AVlicn  it  pleases  the  Almighty,  he  opens  the 
eyes  and  ears  of  our  spiritual  body,  either  for  com- 
fort, or  advice,  or  punishment.  This  criminal  saw 
things  and  heard  words  no  mortal  eyes  have  per- 
ceived, nor  mortal  ears  understood.  The  man  was 
haunted.     1  cannot  doubt  it." 

"  I  believe  what  you  say,"  said  Elizabeth,  solemnly, 
"  for  I  have  heard,  and  I  have  seen." 

"  And  so  have  I,"  said  the  preacher,  in  a  kind  of 
rapture.  "  When  I  lay  sleeping  on  the  St.  Mark's  one 
night,  I  felt  the  thrill  of  a  mighty  touch,  and  I  heard, 
ivith  my  spiritual  ears,  words  which  no  mortal  lips 
uttered  ;  and  I  rose  swiftly,  and  saved  my  life  from 
the  Comanche  by  the  skin  of  my  teeth.  And  an- 
other night,  as  I  rode  over  the  Maverick  prairie, 
when  it  was  knee-deep  in  grass  and  flowers,  and  the 
stars  were  gathering  one  ])y  one  with  a  holy  air  into 
the  house  of  God,  I  could  not  restrain  myself,  and  I 
sang  aloud  for  joy!  Then,  suddenly,  there  seemed 
to  be  all  around  me  a  happy  company,  and  my  spirit- 
ual ears  were  opened,  and  T  heard  a  melody  beyond 
the  voices  of  earth,  and  I  was  not  ashamed  in  it  of 
my  little  human  note  of  praise.  I  tell  you,  death 
only  sets  us  face  to  face  with  Him  who  is  not  very 
far  from  us  at  any  time." 

"And  Bob  is  dead?" 

"  Yes ;  and  I  believe  he  is  saved." 

No  one  spoke ;  and  the  preacher,  after  a  minute's 
silence,  asked,  "  Who  doubts  ? " 


)ens  the 
3r  com- 
nal  saw 
ve  per- 
lan  was 

)leinuly, 

kind  of 
rk's  one 
I  heard, 
rtal  lips 
fe  from 
A.nd  au- 

prairie, 
and  the 
air  into 
If,  and  I 

seemed 
[J  spirit- 
'  beyond 
in  it  of 
u,  death 
not  very 


minute's 


The  Hall  am  Succession.  293 

"  A  sixfold  murderer,  you  said  ? " 

"Kay,  nay,  John  ;  pre  you  ^oing  to  limit  the  grace 
of  God  ?  Do  you  know  the  height  and  deptli  of  his 
mercy  ?  Have  you  measured  the  length  and  breadtli 
of  the  cross  ?  I  brought  the  cross  of  Christ  to  that 
fiend-haunted  bed,  and  the  wretched  soul  clasped  it, 
clung  to  it,  yes,  climbed  up  by  it  into  heaven  I '' 

"It  was  peace  at  last,  then  ?"  said  Phyllis. 

"  It  was  triumph !  The  devil  lost  all  power  to  tort- 
ure him ;  for,  with  the  sweet  assurance  of  his  for- 
giveness came  the  peace  that  passeth  understanding. 
What  is  there  for  great  crinn'nals  ?  Only  the  cro^s 
of  Christ  ?  O  the  miracle  of  love,  that  found  out  for 
us  such  an  escape  ! " 

"And  you  think  that  the  man  really  believed  him- 
self to  be  forgiven  by  God  ? " 

"  I  am  sure  that  he  knew  he  was  forgiven." 

"  It  is  wonderful.     Why,  then,  do  not  all  Chris- 
tians have  this  knowledge  ? " 

"It  is  their  privilege  to  have  it ;  but  how  few  of 

us  have  that  royal  nature  which  claims  all  our  rights  I 

The  cross  of  Christ !     There  are  still  Jewish  minds 

to  whom  it  is  a  stumbling-block ;  and  still  more  minds 

of  the  Greek  type  to  whom  it  is  foolishness." 

"But  is  not  this  doctrine  specially  a  Methodist 
one?" 

"If  St.  Paul  was  a  Metliodist,  and  St.  Augustine, 
and  Martin  Lutlier,  and  the  millions  of  saved  men, 
to  whom  Go.I  has  counted  'faith'   in  his  word  and 


wmmmi 


294 


Thk  Hallam  Succession. 


io 


'I 


f',' 


1^ 


*ll 


mercy  '  for  rigliteonsness,'  then  it  is  specially  Meth- 
odist. What  says  the  Lord  ?  '  Tlieref ore  being  jus- 
tilied  by  faith,  we  have  peace  with  God,  through  our 
Lord  Jesus  Christ.'  I  do  not  say  but  what  tliere  are 
many  good  men  without  this  assurance;  but  1  d(> 
say,  that  it  is  the  privilege  of  all  who  love  and  helieze 
God.  John  Wesley  himself  did  not  experience  this 
joy  until  lie  heard  the  Moravian,  Peter  Bolder,  preach. 
'  Before  that,'  he  says,  '  I  was  a  servant  of  God,  ac- 
cepted and  safe,  but  now  I  knew  it.'* " 

Elizabeth  did  not  again  reply.  She  sat  very  still, 
her  hand  clasped  in  that  of  Phyllis,  whose  head  was 
leaning  upon  her  breast.  And  very  frequently  she 
glanced  down  at  the  pale,  spiritual  face  with  its  lumi- 
nous dark  eyes  and  sweet  mouth.  For  Phyllis  had  to 
perfection  that  lovely,  womanly  charm,  which  puts 
itself  en  rapport  with  every  mood,  and  yet  only  of- 
fers the  sympathy  of  a  sensitive  silence  and  an  an- 
swering face. 

As  the  women  sat  musing  the  moon  rose,  and  then 
up  sprang  the  night  breeze,  laden  with  the  perfume 
of  bleaching  grass,  and  all  the  hot,  sweet  scents  of 
the  south. 

"  How  beautiful  is  this  land ! "  said  Kichard,  in  an  en- 
thusiasm. ''  What  a  pity  the  rabble  of  other  lands 
cannot  be  kept  out  of  it !  " 

The  preacher  lifted  his  head  with  a  quick  belliger- 
ent motion  :  "  There  is  no  such  thing  as  rabble,  sir. 
For  the  meanest  soul  Chi-ist  paid  down  his  precious 


The  Hallam  Succession. 


295 


Meth- 
g  j^s- 
jh  our 
re  lire 

I  dc. 
helieve 
ce  this 
3reacli. 
lod,  ae- 
ry still, 
3ad  was 
itly  she 
ts  lumi- 
5  liad  to 
cli  puts 
ouly  of- 

an  an- 

,nd  then 
erfume 
ents  of 

lin  an  en 
ler  lands 

Ibelliger- 

)ble,  sir. 

[precious 


blood.     What  you  call  '  rabble '  arc  the  builders  of 
kingdoms  and  nationalities." 

"  Yes,"  said  John,  "  I  dare  say  if  we  could  sec  the 
fine  fellows  who  fought  at  Hastings,  and  those  who 
afterward  forced  Magna  Charta  from  King  Jolin  with' 
out  the  poetic  veil  of  seven  hundred  years,  we  should 
be  very  apt  to  call  them '  rabble '  also.  Give  the  found- 
ers of  Texas  the  same  time,  and  they  may  also  have  a 
halo  round  their  heads.  Was  not  liome  foundeu  by 
robbers,  and  Great  Britain  by  pirates  ?  " 

''  There  is  work  for  every  man,  and  men  for  every 
work.  These  '  rabble,'  under  proper  leaders,  were 
used  by  the  Almighty  for  a  grand  purpose — the  re- 
demption of  tliis  fair  land,  and  his  handful  of  ])e()ple 
in  it,  from  the  thrall  of  the  priests  of  Rome.  AVould 
such  men  as  the  Livingstons,  the  Carrolls,  the 
Renselaers,  or  the  wealthy  citizens  of  Philadelpliia  or 
Washington  have  come  here  and  fought  Indians  and 
Mexicans  ;  and  been  driven  about  from  pillar  to  post, 
living  on  potatoes  and  dry  corn  ?  Good  respectable 
people  suffer  a  great  deal  of  tyranny  ere  they  put 
their  property  in  danger.  But  when  Texas,  in  her 
desperation,  rose,  she  wiis  glad  of  the  men  with  a 
brand  on  their  body  and  a  rope  round  their  neck,  and 
who  did  not  value  their  lives  more  than  an  empty 
nut-shell.  They  did  good  service.  Many  of  them 
won  back  fair  names  and  men's  respect  and  God's 
love.  1  call  no  man  '  rabble.'  I  know  that  many  of 
these  outcasts  thanked  God  for  an  opportunity  to 


•■\-";-.»'    ■  ■  V 


2'J6 


The  Hallam  Succession. 


I 


oiler  their  lives  for  tlie  general  good,"  and,  lie  added, 
dropping  his  voice  almost  to  a  M^iisper,  "  I  know  of 
instances  where  the  sacrifice  was  accepted,  and  as- 
surance of  that  acceptance  granted." 


"  The  light  for  freedom  seems  to  be  a  never-ending 


one. 


5) 


"  Because,"  said  the  preacher,  "  Man  was  created 
free.  Freedom  is  his  birthright,  even  though  he  be 
born  in  a  prison,  and  in  chains.  Hence,  the  noblest 
men  are  not  satisfied  with  physical  and  political 
freedom ;  they  must  also  be  free  men  in  Christ  Jesus ; 
for  let  me  tell  you,  if  men  are  slaves  to  sin  and  the 
devil,  not  all  the  Magna  Chartas,  nor  all  the  swords 
in  the  world,  can  make  them  truly  free." 

And  thus  they  talked  until  the  moon  set  and  the 
last  light  was  out  in  the  cabins,  and  the  '  after  mid- 
night'  feeling  became  plainly  evident.  Then  Phyl- 
lis  brought  out  a  dish  that  looked  very  like  walnut 
shells,  but  which  all  welcomed.  They  were  pre- 
served bears'  paws.  "  Eat,"  she  said,  "  for  though 
it  is  the  last  hour  we  may  meet  in  this  life,  W3 
nmst  sleep  now." 

And  the  Texan  luxury  was  eaten  with  many  a 
pleasant  word,  and  then,  with  kind  and  solemn  '  fare- 
wells,' the  little  party  separated,  never  in  all  the  years 
of  earth  to  sit  together  again ;  for  just  at  daylight, 
John  and  Phyllis  stood  at  their  gates,  watching  the 
carriage  which  carried  Richard  and  Elizabeth  pass 
over  the  hill,  and  into  the  timber,  and  out  of  sight. 


II  fi 


1  added, 
:now  of 
and  as- 


-ending 


created 
•li  lie  be 

I 

noblest 
political 
t  Jesus ; 
and  the 
J  swords 

and  the 
ter  niid- 
3n  Phyl- 
!  walnut 
ere  pre- 
tliough 
life,   W3 

many  a 
m  '  f are- 
the  years 
daylight, 
ihing  the 
eth  pass 
■  sight. 


THa  IIallam  Succession. 


2i)7 


CHAPTER  XL 

-  The  evening  of  life  brings  with  it  its  lamp."— Toubekt. 

"  And  there  arrives  a  lull  in  the  hot  race: 

And  an  unwonted  calm  pervades  the  breast. 

And  then  he  tliinks  he  knows 

The  hills  where  his  life  rose, 

And  the  sea,  where  it  goes."— ARNOLa 

"Slie  hiis  passed 
To  where,  beyond  these  voices,  there  is  peace." 

TT  is  the  greatest  folly  to  think  that  tlie  onlv  time 
1  worth  writing  about  is  youth.     It   is   an"  equal 
folly  to  imagine  that  love  is  the  only  passion  univers- 
ally    interesting.      Elizabeth's    years    were   no    less 
vivid,  no  less  full  of  feeling  and  of  changes,  after 
her  marriage  than  before  it.     Indeed,  she  never  quite 
lost   the  interests  of  her  maiden  life.     Hullam  de- 
manded an  oversight  she  did  not  fail  to  give  it.     Three 
times  during  the  twelve  years  of  its  confiscation  to 
Antony's  creditors  she  visited  it.     In  these  visits  she 
was   accompanied  by  Richard,  and  Harry,  and  her 
own   children.      Tlien  the  Whaleys'  accounts  were 
carefully  gone  over,  and  found  always  to  be  perfectly 
honorable  and  satisfactory.     And  it' is  needless  to  say 
how  happy  Martha  was  at  such  times. 

Gradually  all  ill-feeling  passed  away.     The  young 
squire,  though  educated  abroad,  had  just  such  a  train- 


a 


298 


The  Hallam  Succession. 


ing  as  made  him  popular.  For  ho  passed  part  of 
every  year  in  Texas  with  Dick  Millard,  and  all  that 
could  be  known  about  horses  and  hunting  and  wood- 
craft, Harry  JIallam  knew,  lie  had  also  taken  on 
very  easily  the  Texan  manner,  frank,  yet  rather 
proud  and  phlegnuitic  :  "  Evidently  a  young  man  who 
knows  what  he  wants,  and  will  be  apt  to  get  it," 
said  Whaley. 

''  Nine  Yorkshire  jockeys  knocked  into  one 
couldn't  blind  him  on  a  horse,"  said  young  llorton. 

"And  111  lay  a  guinea  he'll  lead  in  every  hunting 
field." 

"  And  tliey  do  say,  he's  r  first-rate  sctholar  besides." 

Such  conversations  regaiuirghim  were  indefinitely 
repeated,  and  varied. 

When  he  ^vas  in  his  eiij^hteenth  year  the  estate  was 
absolutely  free  of  every  claim,  and  in  a  condition 
which  reflected  the  greatest  credit  upon  tliose  in 
■whose  care  it  had  been  placed.  It  was  at  this  time 
that  Richard  and  Elizabeth  took  the  young  man  into 
his  grandfather's  room,  and  laid  before  him  the  title 
deeds  of  his  patrimony  and  the  schedule  of  its  various 
incomes.  Then,  also,  they  told  him,  with  infinite 
kindness  and  forbearance,  the  storv  of  his  father's  ef- 
forts  and  failures,  and  the  manner  in  which  the  estate 
had  been  handled,  so  that  it  might  be  made  over  to 
him  free  of  all  debt  and  stain. 

Harry  said  very  little.  His  adopted  parents  liked 
him  the  better  for  that.     But  he  was   profoundly 


The  IIallam  Succession.  209 

-.mazed  and  grateful.     Then  he  went  to  Cambridge 
and  for  tliree  years  Elizabeth  did  not  see  him.     It 
liad   l)een  arranged,  however,  tliat  the  wliole  family 
should  meet  at  IJallam  on  the  anniversary  of  his  ma- 
joi-ity,  and  the  occurrence  was  celebrated  with  every 
public  festivity  that  had  always  attended  that  event 
m  the  JJallani  family.     There  was  nothing  to  di.u 
the  occasion.     Every  one,  far  and  near,  took  the  op- 
portunity  to  show  that    ill-thoughts   and   ill-feelings 
were  forever  buried,  and  Elizabeth  and  Richard  were 
feted  with  especial  honor. 

'^  Few  women  would  hev  done  so  well  by  t'  land 
and  t'  family,"  admitted  even  Lord  Eltham,  "and  if 
I  wasn't  so  old  and  feeble,  I'd  go  and  tell  her 
60 ;  and  to  be  foreign-born,  that  Mr.  Fontaine  has 
been  varry  square,  that  lie  hes.  He  shows  t'  English 
blood  in  him." 

"  Ay,  it's  hard  to  wear  Yorkshire  out.  It  bears  a 
deal  o'  waterin',  and  is  still  strong  and  straight- 
for'ard,"  answered  Whalev. 

t/ 

"Now  he'll  hev  to  wed  and  settle  down." 

"  He'll  do  that.  I've  seen  a  deal  o'  him,  and  I've 
noticed  that  he  has  neither  eyes  nor  ears  but  for  our 
little  lass,  a  varry  bonny  lass  she  is  !  " 

"It  '11  be  Alice  Horton,  happen?" 

"Nay,  it  isn't.  It's  his  cousin,  Bessie  Fontaine. 
She's  but  a  girl  yet,  but  she's  t'  varry  ima-e  o'her 
mother,  just  what  Elizabeth  Plallam  was  at  sixteen- 
happen  only  a  bit  slighter  and  more  delicate-looking  " 


[■I    • 
i 


]^\ 


i 


' 


300 


The  Hallam  Succession. 


"  And  no  wonder,  AVliuley.  To  be  brought  up  i*  a 
place  like  that  New  Orleans.  W}^h-a !  they  do  say 
that  t'  winter  weather  tliere  is  like  our  haymakin* 
time  I  Poor  thing  I  She'll  get  a  bit  o'  color  here,  I'se 
warrant." 

The  Yorkshire  lawyer  had  seen  even  into  a  love 
afTjiir  with  clear  eyes.  Bessie  and  Harry  had  already 
confided  their  alTection  to  Elizabeth,  but  she  was 
quite  determined  that  there  should  be  no  engagement 
until  after  Harry  returned  from  a  three  years'  travel 
in  Europe  and  Asia. 

''  Then,  Harry,"  she  said,  "  you  will  have  seen  the 
women  of  many  lands.  And  Bessie  will  also  have 
seen  something  of  the  world,  and  of  the  society  around 
her.  Slic  must  choose  you  from  among  all  others,  and 
not  simply  because  habit  and  contiguity  and  family 
relations  have  thrown  you  together." 
-  Still  it  pleased  her,  that  from  every  pai't  of  the 
world  came  regularly  and  constantly  letters  and 
tokens  of  Harry's  love  for  her  daughter.  She  would 
not  force,  she  would  not  even  desire,  such  a  consum- 
mation ;  but  yet,  if  a  true  and  tried  affection  should 
unite  the  cousins,  it  would  bo  a  w^onderful  settle- 
ment of  that  succession  which  had  so  troubled  and 
perplexed  her  father,  and  which  at  last  he  had 
humbly  left  to  the  wisdom  and  direction  of  a  higher 
1*0  we  r. 

Therefore,  when  Harry,  in  his  twenty-fourth  year, 
browned  and  bearded  with  much  travel,  came  back  to 


The  IIallam  Succession. 


301 


t  up  i*  a 
r  do  say 
ymakin' 
ere,  I'se 

)  a  love 
,  already 
she  was 
agement 
's'  travel 

seen  the 
ilso  have 
y  around 
hers,  and 
d  family 

\'i  of  the 
:crs    and 
le  would 
eonsuni- 
In  should 
1    settle- 
3led  aud 
he   had 
a  higher 

irth  year, 
e  hack  to 


Kew  Orleans,  to  ask  the  hand  of  the  only  woman  he  liiid 
ever  loved,  Elizahcth  was  very  happy.  Her  daugliter 
was  going  hack  to  her  old  home,  going  to  he  the  mis- 
tress of  its  fair  sunny  rooms,  and  renew  in  her  young 
life  the  hoi)es  and  memories  of  a  hy-gone  genera- 
tion. 

And  to  the  hii)^py  bridal  came  John  and  Phyllis, 
and  all  their  liau'  .^ome  sons  and  daughters,  and  never 
was  there  a  more  sweetly,  solenm  maniage-feast.  For 
many  wise  thoughts  had  come  to  Elizahcth  as  her 
children  grew  up  at  her  side,  and  one  of  them  was  a 
conviction  that  marriaijje  is  too  sacred  a  thinii:  to  i)e 
entered  into  amid  linmhter  and  danciim'  and  thonirht- 
less  feasting.  "If  Jesus  wns  asked  to  the  marria;^e, 
as  he  was  in  Cana  of  Galilee,  there  would  he  fewer  un- 
happy marriages,"  she  said.  So  the  young  bride  w;is 
sent  away  with  smiles  and  kisses  and  h)ving  joyful 
wishes,  but  not  in  a  whirl  of  dancing  nnd  champagne 
gayety  and  noisy  selfish  merriment. 

And  the  years  came  and  went,  and  none  of  them 
were  alike.  In  one,  it  was  the  marriage  of  her 
eldest  son,  Richard,  to  Lulu  Millard ;  in  anotlier,  the 
death  of  a  baby  girl  very  dear  to  her.  She  had  her 
daily  crosses  and  her  daily  blessings,  and  her  daily 
jiortion  of  duties.  But  in  the  main,  it  may  be  said,  for 
liichard  and  Elizabeth  Fontaine,  that  they  had  "  borne 
the  yoke  in  their  youth,"  and  learned  the  great  lessons 
of  life,  before  the  days  came  in  which  their  strength 
began  to  fail  them. 


302 


The  IIallam  Slxcession. 


i 


The  last  year  of  any  life  may  generally  be  taken  ar  the 
verdict  upon  tliat  life.  Elizabeth's  was  a  very  hajipy 
one.  SliL!  was  one  of  those  women  on  whom  time  lays 
a  consecratin<i^  hand.  Her  beauty,  in  one  sense,  had 
gone;  in  another  sense,  she  was  fairer  than  ever.  Her 
noble  face  had  lost  its  bloom  and  its  tine  contour,  but 
her  mouth  was  sweeter  and  stronger,  and  her  eyes  full 
of  the  light  of  a  soul  standing  in  the  promise  of 
heaven.  She  had  much  of  her  old  energy  and 
activity.  In  the  s])ring  of  the  year  she  went  to 
Texas  to  see  a  son  and  daughter  who  had  settled  there ; 
and,  with  one  of  her  grandchildren,  rode  thought- 
fully, but  not  unhappily,  over  all  the  pleasant  places 
she  had  been  with  Richard  that  iirst  happy  year 
of  their  marriage.  Richard  had  been  six  years  dead, 
but  she  had  never  mourned  him  as  those  mourn  who 
part  hands  in  mid-life,  when  the  way  is  still  long 
before  the  lonely  heart.  In  a  short  time  they  would 
meet  again,  for 


8  i 


"  As  the  pale  wasto  widens  around  iis, 
And  the  banks  fade  dimmer  awa}-, 

As  the  stars  come  out,  the  niglit  wind 
Brings  up  tlie  stream 

Murmurs  and  scents  of  the  infinite  sea." 

Yet  there  had  been  a  very  solemn  parting  between 
her  and  Phyllis ;  and  when  Phyllis  stooped  twice  to 
the  face  in  the  departing  carriage,  and  the  two  women 
kissed  each  other  so  silently,  John  was  somehow 
touched  into  an  unusual  thoughtful ness ;  and  for  the 


::!    W 


\  \: 


ken  ar  the 
ny  lia])py 

time  lays 
iense,  liad 
ver.  Her 
itonr,  but 

eyes  full 
omise  of 
Tgy   and 

went  to 
cd  there ; 
thought- 
nt  places 
)py  year 
ii'B  dead, 
urn  who 
;ill  long 
y  would 


:)etwoen 
wice  to 
women 
)mehow 
for  the 


-I  HE  Hall  AM  Succession.  303 

first  time  realized  that  his  sweet  Phyllis  Wiis  fading 
away,  lie  could  not  talk  in  his  usual  cheery  manne^ 
and  when  he  said,  '•  Farewell,  Elizabeth,"  and  held  her 
hand,  he  involuntarily  glanced  at  his  wife,  and  walked 
away  with  his  eyes  full  of  tears. 

But  as  the  brain  grows  by  knowledge,  so  the  neart 
is  made  larger  by  loving;  and  Elizabeth  was  rich  and 
happy  in  the  treasures  she  had  garnered.      The  past 
no  prayer  could  bring  back;  the  future  she  counted 
not ;  but  she  enjoyed  in  every  hour  the  bh.-ssing  they 
brought  her.    The  voyage  across  the  ocean  wns  delight- 
ful ;    she  found  young  hearts  to   counscJ,  and  aged 
ones  to  change  experiences  with.     Every  c»ne  desired 
to  talk  to  her,  and  counted  it  a  favor  to  sit  or  to  walk 
by  her  side.     So  beautiful  is  true  pietv  ;  so  lovely  is 
the   soul   that  comes  into  daily  life  fresh  from  the 
presence  of  the  Deity. 

She  had  left  Texas  in  May  ;  she  arrived  nt  IFallam 
"1  June.  And  how  beautiful  the  dear  old  place 
was!  But  Martha  had  gone  to  her  reward  two  years 
previously,  and  Elizabeth  missed  her.  Slie  had  hved 
to  be  eighty-eight  years  old,  and  had  not  so  much 
died  as  fallen  asleep.  She  had  never  left  the  hall, 
but,  as  long  as  she  was  able,  had  taken  chari^^e  of  all  its 
treasures  and  of  every  thing  concerning  the  children. 
Even  when  confined  to  her  room,  they  h,,,!  come  to 
her  with  their  troubles  and  their  j.,ys,  and  her  fin-ers 
were  busy  for  them  unto  the  last  da  v. 

Yet^no  one  missed  Martha  as  Elizabeth  missed  her. 


304 


The  Hallam  Succession. 


;. !  ,i 


With  Martha  she  talked  on  subjects  she  mentioned  to 
no  one  else.  They  had  confidences  no  others  could 
share.  It  seemed  as  if  the  last  link  which  bound  her 
to  her  youth  was  broken.  But  one  morning,  as  her 
daughter  was  slowly  driving  her  through  Hallam 
village,  she  saw  an  old  man  who  had  been  very  pleas- 
antly linked  with  the  by-gone  years,  and  slie  said, 
"  That  is  a  very  dear  friend,  I  must  speak  to  him, 
Bessie." 

He  was  a  slight  old  man,  with  thin  hair  white  as 
wool  falling  on  his  shoulders,  and  a  face  full  of  calm 
contemplation.  "  Mr.  North,"  said  Elizabeth,  tremu- 
lously, "  do  you  remember  me  ?  " 

He  removed  his  hat,  and  looked  attentivelv  in  the 
face  bending  toward  him  Then,  with  a  smile, 
"  Ah,  yes,  I  remember  Miss  Hallam.  God  is  good  to 
let  me  see  you  again.     I  am  very  glad,  indeed." 

"  You  must  come  to  the  hall  with  me,  if  you  can  ;  1 
have  a  great  deal  to  say  to  you." 

And  thus  it  happened  that  after  this  meeting  Bes- 
sie frequently  stopped  for  him  in  the  village,  and  that 
gradually  he  spent  more  and  more  time  at  the  hall. 
There  he  always  occupied  the  large  room  called  the 
"  Chamber  of  Peace,"  hallowed  by  the  memory  of 

the  apostle  of  his  faith. 

One  hot  August  day  he  had  gone  to  its  cool,  calm 

shelter,  after  spending  an  hour  with  Elizabeth.   Their 

conversation  had  been  in  heaven,  and  specially  of  the 

early  dead  and  blessed,  who  went  in  the  serenity  of 


^\-\ 


iitioned  to 
:iers  could 
bound  lier 
ng,  as  her 
:i  Ilallam 
rery  pleas- 
slie  said, 
k  to  him, 

•  white  as 
11  of  calm 
th,  tremu- 

elv  in  the 
a   smile, 
is  good  to 
ied." 
ou  can ;  1 

ting  Bes- 
!,  and  that 
;  the  hall, 
mlled  the 
emory  of 

3ool,  calm 
th.  Their 
illy  of  the 
3renity  of 


The  Hallajvi  Succession.  305 

the  morning ;  whose  love  for  God  had  known  no 
treachery,  and  who  took  the  hand  of  Jesns  and  fol- 
lowed him  with  all  their  heart. 

"I  think  theirs  will  be  the  radiant  habitations, 
and  the  swift  obedience  of  the  seraphim.  They  will 
know  and  love  and  work,  as  do  the  angels." 

'^n  middle  life,"  said  Elizabeth,  "heaven  seems 
farther  away  from  us." 

"  True,  my  sister.  At  midday  the  workman  may 
think  of  th«5  evening,  but  it  is  his  work  that  chiefly 
engrosses  him.  Not  that  the  Christian  ever  forgets 
God  in  his  labor,  but  he  needs  to  be  on  the  alert,  and 
to  keep  every  faculty  busy.  But  when  the  shades  of 
evening  gather,  he  begins  to  think  of  going  home, 
and  of  the  result  of  his  labor." 

"  In  middle  life,  too,  death  amazes  us.  In  the  mo- 
ment of  hearing  of  such  a  death  I  always  found  my 
heart  protest  against  it.  But  as  I  grow  older  I  can 
feel  that  all  the  cords  binding  to  life  grow  slack. 
How  will  it  be  at  the  end  ? " 

"  I  think  as  soon  as  heaven  is  seen,  we  shall  tend 
toward  it.  We  will  not  go  away  in  sadness,  dear 
sister;  we  shall  depart  in  the  joy  of  his  salvation.  If 
I  was  by  your  side  ,  I  should  not  say,  "  Farewell ; "  I 
should  speak  of  our  meeting  again." 

Then  he  went  away,  and  Elizabeth,  with  a  happy 
face,  drew  her  chair  to  the  open  window  of  her 
room  and  lifted  her  work.  It  was  a  piece  of  silken 
patch-work,  made  of   dresses  and  scarfs  and  sashes, 


306 


The  Hallam  Succession. 


that  each  liad  a  history  in  her  memory.  There  were 
circles  from  Phyllis's  and  her  own  wedding  dresses, 
one  from  a  baby  sash  of  her  son  Charles.  Charles 
hung  his  sword  from  a  captain's  belt  then,  but  she 
kept  the  blue  ribbon  of  his  babyhood.  There  was  a 
bit  from  Jack's  first  cravat,  and  Dick's  flag,  and  her 
dear  husband's  wedding  vest,  and  from  the  small 
silken  shoes  of  the  little  Maya — dear  little  Maya,  who 

"  Froin  the  nursery  door, 
Climbed  up  with  clay  cold  foot 
Unto  the  golden  floor." 

Any  wife  and  mother  can  imagine  the  thousand  silken 
strips  that  would  gather  in  a  life  of  love. 

She  had  often  said  that  in  her  old  age  she  would 
sew  together  these  memorials  of  her  sorrow  and  her 
joy ;  and  Bessie  frequently  stood  beside  her,  listening 
to  events  which  this  or  that  piece  called  forth,  and 
watching  the  gay  beautiful  squares,  as  they  grew  in 
the  summer  sunshine  and  by  the  glinting  winter 
firelight. 

After  Mr.  North  left  her  she  lifted  her  work  and 
sat  sewing  and  singing.  It  was  an  unusually  hot  day  ; 
the  perfume  from  the  August  lilies  and  the  laven- 
der and  the  rich  carnations  almost  made  the  heart 
faint.  All  the  birds  were  still ;  but  tlie  bees  were 
busy,  and  far  off  there  was  the  soft  tinkling  of  the 
water  falling  into  the  two  fountains  on  the  terrace. 
Harry  came  in,  and  said,  "  I  am  going  into  Hallam, 
mother,  so  I  kiss  you  before  I  go ;  "  and  she  rose  up 


here  were 
w  dresses, 
Charles 
n,  but  she 
ere  was  a 
1,  and  her 
the  small 
laya,  who 


iiid  silken 

she  would 
w  and  her 
,  listening 
forth,  and 
y  grew  in 
ig  winter 

work  and 
y  hot  day ; 
the  laven- 

the  heart 
bees  were 
Ing  of  the 
le  terrace, 
o  Hallam, 
he  rose  np 


\ 


The  Hallam  Succession.  307 

and  kissed  the  handsome  fellow,  and  watched  him 
away,  and  when  he  turned  and  lifted  his  hat  to  her, 
she  blessed  him,  and  thanked  God  that  he  had  let  her 
live  to  see  Antony's  son  so  good  and  worthy  an  in- 
heritor of  the  old  name  and  place. 

By  and  by  her  thoughts  drifted  westward  to  her 
son  Charles,  with  his  regiment  on  the  Colorado  plains, 
to  her  son  Richard  in  his  Texan  home,  to  Phyllis 
and  John,  to  her  daughter  JSTetta,  to  the  graves  of 
Richard  and  the  little  Maya.     It  seemed  to  her  as  if 
all  her  work  was  finished.      How  wonderfully  the 
wrong  had  been  put  right !    How  worthy  Harry  was ! 
How  happy  her  own  dear  Bessie !  If  her  father  could 
see  the  home  he  had  left   with  anxious  fears,  she 
thought  he  would  be  satisfied.     "  I  shall  be  glad  to 
see  him,"  she  said,  softly ;  -  lie  will  say  to  me,  '  Thou 
did  right,  Elizabeth ! '    I  think  that  his  praise  will 
be  sweet,  even  after  the  Master's." 

At  this  point  in  her  reflections  Bessie  came  into 
her  room.  She  had  her  arms  full  of  myrtles  and 
glowmg  dahlias,  of  every  color;  and  she  stooped  and 
kissed  her  motlier,  and  praised  the  beauty  of  her 
work,  and  then  began  to  arrange  the  flowers  in  the 
large  vases  which  stood  upon  the  hearth  and  upon 
the  table. 

"  It  is  a  most  beautiful  day,  mother !  a  most  beauti- 
ful world !  I  wonder  why  God  says  he  will  make  a 
new  world  !     How  can  a  new  one  be  fairer  ? " 

"  His  tabernacle  will  be  in  it,  Bessie.     Think  of 


308 


The  IIallam  Succession. 


!     ;, 


that,  my  cliikl.  An  intimate  happiness  with  him. 
No  more  sin.  All  tears  wiped  away.  Bessie,  there 
may  be  grander  worlds  among  the  countless  stars,  but 
O  earth!  fair  happy  earth,  that  has  such  hope  of 
heaven  ! "  and  she  began  to  sing  to  the  sweet  old 
tune  of  "  Immanuel," 

*'  There  is  a  land  of  pure  delight, 
Where  saints — " 

There  was  a  sudden  pause,  and  Bessie  lifted  the 
strain,  but  ere  the  verse  was  finished,  turned  sud- 
denly and  looked  at  her  mother.  The  next  moment 
she  was  at  her  side.  With  the  needle  in  her  fingers, 
with  the  song  upon  her  lips,  Elizabeth  had  gone 
to  "Immanuel's  Land,"  without  even  a  parting 
sigh. 

It  seemed  almost  wrong  to  weep  for  such  a  death. 
Bessie  knelt  praying  by  her  mother's  side,  holding 
her  hands,  and  gazing  into  the  dear  face,  fast  settling 
into  those  solemn  curves  which  death  makes  firm  and 
sharp-cut,  as  if  they  were  to  endure  for  ages,  until 
the  transition  was  quite  complete.  Then  she  called 
in  the  old  servants  who  most  loved  her  mother,  and 
they  dressed  her  for  her  burial,  and  laid  her  upon  the 
small,  snowy  bed  -which  had  been  hers  from  her 
girlhood.  And  the  children  gathered  the  white 
odorous  everlastings  and  the  white  flowers  in  all  the 
garden,  and  with  soft  steps  and  tender  hands  spread 
them  over  the  still  breast,  and  the  pure  draper3\ 
And  when  Mr.  North  came  in  with  Harry,  though 


vith  him. 

5sie,  there 

stars,  but 

hope   of 

sweet  old 


lifted  the 
rned  sud- 
t  moment 
31'  fingers, 
had  gone 
I    parting 

h  a  death. 
B,  holding 
st  settling 
3  firm  and 
iges,  until 
she  called 
other,  and 
'  upon  the 
from  her 
;he  white 
in  all  the 
ds  spread 
drapery. 
y,  though 


The  Hall  am  Succession.  sO\) 

Harry  wept,  the  preaci.er  could  not.  With  a  face 
full  of  triumph,  he  looked  at  her,  and  said  only,  "  Go 
in  peace ;  soul  beautifii',  and  blessed !  " 

It  had  been  well  known  for  more  than  a  year  that 
Elizabeth's  l.fe  was  held  at  a  moment's  tenure     It 
was  a  httle  singular  that  Phyllis  was  suffering,  also, 
froui  a  complaint  almost  analogous;  and  when  the, 
md  b,d  each  other  a  farewell  in  the  spring,  they 
had  understood  it  to  be  the  last  of  earth.    Leed 
I  hylhs  had  whispered  to  Elizabeth  in  that  partin.^ 
moment    "I  give  you  a  rendezvous  iu  heaven,  .n; 
darling ! "  '      •' 

Often  also  during  the  summer  Bessie  had  heard 
her  mother  softly  singing  to  herself: 

"I  look  unto  the  gctea  of  His  high  place, 

Beyond  the  sea  ; 
For  I  know  he  is  coming  shortly, 

To  summon  me. 
And  vvlien  a  shadow  falls  across  the  window 

Of  my  room, 
Where  I  am  working  my  appointed  task, 
i  hft  my  head  to  watch  the  door,  and  ask 

If  he  is  come  ? 
And  the  Angel  answers  sweetly, 

Jn  my  home. 
Only  a  few  more  shadows, 
And  he  will  come." 

She  was  laid  with  her  fathers  in  the  old  church- 
yard at  Hallam.  And  O,  how  sweet  is  the  sleep 
of  those  whom  the  King  causeth  to  rest !  Neither 
lands  nor  houses  nor    gold,  nor  yet  the   joy  of  a 


310 


The  Hallam  Succession. 


fond  and  faithful  lover,  tempted  Elizabeth  Hal- 
lam to  leave  the  path  of  honor  and  rectitude;  but 
wnen  her  trial  was  finished,  bear  witness  how  God 
blessed  her !  giving  her  abundantly  of  all  good  things 
in  this  life,  and  an  inheritance,  incorruptible,  unde- 
filed,  and  which  shall  never  pass  away  from  her. 


THE    END. 


II' 


1^ 


beth  Ilal- 
itnde;  but 
\  how  God 
^ood  things 
:ible,  unde- 
II  her. 


